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MR. FORTUNE’S 
PRACTICE 


BY 

H. C. BAILEY 

Author of “Call liir. Fortune,” etc. 



E. 


NEW YORK 

P. DUTTON & COMPANY 

681 FIFTH AVENUE 



Copyright, 1924 

BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 



©C1A766807 W 



Printed in the United States of America 

JAN 2 l 24 J 





*>+ . 


} 




i 


£ 


CONTENTS 

CASE 

I The Ascot Tragedy 
II The President of San Jacinto 

III The Young Doctor 

IV The Magic Stone 

V The Snowball Burglary 
VI The Leading Lady . . 

VII The Unknown Murderer . 


PAGE 
w I 

. 38 

» 73 

. 7II 

. 143 
. 173 

. 2og 




MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


r 


CASE I 

THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 

T HAT is what it would have been called in 
the evening papers if they had known all 
about it. They did not. They made the 
most of the mystery, you remember; it was not 
good for them or you to know that the sequel was a 
sequel. But there is no reason why the flats should 
not be joined now. 

So let us begin at Ascot on the morning of that 
Cup Day. One of our fine summers, the course 
rather yellow, the lawns rather brown, a haze of 
heat over the distant woodland, and sunshine flam¬ 
ing about the flounces and silk hats. There were 
already many of both in the Royal Enclosure (it 
was a year of flounces), and among them, dapper, 
debonair, everybody’s friend, the youngest middle- 
aged man in Europe. He, of course, is the Hon. 
Sidney Lomas, the Chief of the Criminal Investiga¬ 
tion Department, though mistaken by some out¬ 
siders for a comic actor of fame. Tripping back 
from a joke with the stewards, he discovered, spraw- 

i 


2 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


ling solitary on the end of one of the seats, Mr. 
Fortune, the adviser of him and all other official and 
important people when surgery, medicine or kin¬ 
dred sciences can elucidate what is or is not crime. 
No one looks more prosperous than Reginald For¬ 
tune. He is plump and pinkly healthy, he and his 
tailor treat each other with respect, his countenance 
has the amiability of a nice boy. 

But on this occasion Lomas found fault with 
him. 

“Why, Fortune, you’re very pensive. Have you 
lost the lady of your present affections ? Or backed 
a wrong ’un?” 

“Go away. No fellow has a right to be as cool as 
you look. Go quite away. ' I feel like the three 
fellows in the Bible who sang in the furnace. How 
can you jest, Lomas? I have no affections. I can¬ 
not love, to bet I am ashamed. I always win. Half- 
crowns. Why is the world thus, Lomas?” 

“My dear fellow, you’re not yourself. You look 
quite professional.” 

Reggie Fortune groaned. “I am. This place 
worries me. I am anatomical, ethnological, anthro¬ 
pological.” 

“Good Gad,” said Lomas. 

“Yes. A distressing place, look at it”; he waved 
a stick. 

The people in the Royal Enclosure were as pleas¬ 
ant to behold as usual. Comely girls and women 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


3 

who had been comely passed in frocks of which 
many were pretty and few garish; their men were of 
a blameless, inconspicuous uniformity. 

“What is he?” said Reggie Fortune. “I ask 
you. Look at his feet.” 

What Lomas saw was a man dressed like all the 
rest of them and as well set up, but of a darker com¬ 
plexion. He did not see anything remarkable. “The 
big fellow?” he said. “He is a little weak at the 
knee. But what’s the matter with him?” 

“Who is he?” said Reggie Fortune. 

Lomas shrugged. “Not English, of course. 
Rather a half-caste colour, isn’t he? From one of 
the smaller legations, I suppose, Balkan or South 
American.” He waved a hand to some elegant 
aliens who were at that moment kissing ladies’ hands 
with florid grace. “They all come here, you 
know.” 

“I don’t know,” said Reggie Fortune peevishly. 

“Half-caste? Half what caste? Look at his 
feet.” Now the man’s feet, well displayed beneath 
white spats, were large and flat but distinguished 
by their heels, which stuck out behind extravagantly. 
“That is the negro heel.” 

“My dear Fortune! The fellow is no more a 
negro than I am,” Lomas protested: and indeed the 
man’s hair was straight and sleek and he had a 
good enough nose, and he was far from black. 

“The negro or Hamitic heel,” Reggie Fortune 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


4 

drowsily persisted. “I suspect the Hamitic or 
negro leg. And otherwise up above. And it’s all 
very distressing, Lomas.” 

“An Egyptian or perhaps an Arab: probably a 
Foreign Office pet,” Lomas consoled him. “That 
would get him into the Royal Enclosure.” 

Lomas was then removed by a duchess and Reggie 
Fortune tilted his hat still farther over his eyes and 
pondered whether it would be wise to drink before 
lunch and was dreamily aware of other people on his 
seat, an old man darkly tanned and soldierly in the 
custody of a little woman brilliantly dressed and ter¬ 
ribly vivacious. She chattered without a pause, she 
made eyes, she made affectionate movements and 
little caresses. The old man though helpless seemed 
to be thinking of something else. And Reggie For¬ 
tune sketched lower and still lower estimates of hu¬ 
man nature. 

They went away at last when everybody went 
away to gather in a crowd at the gates and along the 
railings for the coming of the King. You will please 
to observe that the time must have been about one 
o’clock. 

Reggie Fortune, one of the few, remained on his 
seat. He heard the cheering down the course and 
had sufficient presence of mind to stand up and take 
off his hat as the distant band began to play. Over 
the heads of the crowd he saw the red coats of the 
postilions and a gleam of the grey of the team as the 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


5 


King’s carriage swept round into the enclosure. The 
rest of the procession passed and the crowd melted 
away. But one man remained by the railings alone. 
He was tall and thin and he leaned limply against the 
railings, one arm hanging over them. After a little 
while he turned on his heel and fell in a heap. 

Two of the green-coated wardens of the gate ran 
up to him. “Oh, Lord,” Reggie Fortune groaned, 
“why did I be a doctor?” But before he could get 
through the flurry of people the man was being 
carried away. 

The gift of Lomas for arriving where he wants to 
be displayed itself. Lomas slid through the crowd 
and took his arm, “Stout fellow! Come along. It’s 
Sir Arthur Dean. Touch of sun, what?” 

“Arthur Dean ? That’s the Persia man, the pundit 
on the Middle East?” 

“That’s the fellow. Getting old, you know. One 
of the best.” 

Into the room where the old man lay came the 
shouting over the first race. By the door Lomas and 
an inspector of police talked in low tones, glancing 
now and then at Reggie, who was busy. 

“Merry Man! Merry Man! Merry Man!” the 
crowd roared outside. 

Reggie straightened his bent back and stood look¬ 
ing down at his patient. Lomas came forward. 
“Anything we can get you, Fortune? Would you 
like some assistance?” 


6 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“You can’t assist him,” said Reggie. “He's 
dead.” 

“Merry Man!” the crowd triumphed. “Merry 
Man!” 

“Good Gad!” said Lomas. “Poor fellow. One 
of the best. Well, well, what is it? Heart failure?” 

“The heart generally fails when you die,” Reggie 
mumbled: he still stared down at the body and the 
wonted benignity of his face was lost in expression¬ 
less reserve. “Do you know if he has any people 
down here?” 

“It’s possible. There is a married son. I’ll have 
him looked for.” Lomas sent his inspector off. 

“I saw the old man with a woman just before he 
died,” Reggie murmured, and Lomas put up his eye¬ 
glass. 

“Did you though? Very sudden,‘wasn’t it? And 
he was all alone when he died.” 

“When he fell,” Reggie mumbled the correction. 
“Yes, highly sudden.” 

“What was the cause of death, Fortune?” 

“I wonder,” Reggie muttered. Fie went down on 
his knees by the body, he looked long and closely into 
the eyes, he opened the clothes . . . and to the eyes 
he came back again. Then there was a tap at the 
door and Lomas having conferred there came back 
and said, “The son and his wife. I’ll tell them. I 
suppose they can see the body?” 

“They’d better see the body,” said Reggie, and as 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


7 

Lomas went out he began to cover and arrange it. 
He was laying the right arm by the side when he 
checked and held it up to the light. On the back of 
the hand was a tiny drop of blood and a red smear. 
He looked close and found such a hole as a pin might 
make. 

From the room outside came a woman’s cry, then 
a deep man’s voice in some agitation, and Lomas 
opened the door. “This is Mr. Fortune, the surgeon 
who was with your father at once. Major Dean and 
Mrs. Dean, Fortune.” 

Reggie bowed and studied them. The man was a 
soldierly fellow, with his father’s keen, wary face. 
But it was the woman Reggie watched, the woman 
who was saying, “I was with him only half an hour 
ago,” and twisting her hands nervously. 

“Most of that half-hour he has been dead. Where 
did you leave him, madam ?” Reggie said. 

Husband and wife stared at him. “Why, in the 
Royal Enclosure, of course. In the crowd when the 
King came. I—I lost him. Somebody spoke to me. 
Yes, it was Sybil. And I never saw him again.” 

Reggie stepped aside from the body. She shud¬ 
dered and hid her face in her hands. “His eyes— 
his eyes,” she murmured. 

Major Dean blew his nose. “This rather knocks 
one over,” he said. “What’s the cause of death, 
sir?” 

“Can you help me?” said Reggie. 


8 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“I? What do you mean?” 

“Nothing wrong with his heart, was there?” 

“Never heard of it. He didn’t use doctors. Never 
was ill.” 

Reggie stroked his chin. “I suppose he hadn’t 
been to an oculist lately?” 

“Not he. His eyes were as good as mine. Won¬ 
derful good. He used to brag of it. He was rising 
seventy and no glasses. Good Lord, what’s that got 
to do with it? I want to know why he died.” 

“So do I. And I can’t tell you,” said Reggie. 

“What? I say—what? You mean a post-mortem. 
That’s horrible.” 

“My dear Major, it is most distressing,” Lomas 
purred. “I assure you anything in our power—sym¬ 
pathize with your feelings, quite, quite. But the 
Coroner would insist, you know; we have no choice.” 

“As you were saying,” Reggie chimed in, “we 
want to know why he died.” 

Major Dean drew a long breath. “That’s all right, 
that’s all right,” he said. “The old dad!” and he 
came to his father’s side and knelt down, and his 
wife stood by him, her hand on his shoulder. He 
looked a moment into the dead face, and closed the 
eyes and looked long. 

From this scene Reggie and Lomas drew back. In 
the silence they heard the man and woman breathing 
unsteadily. Lomas sighed his sympathy. Mrs. Dean 
whispered, “His mouth! Oh, Claude, his mouth!” 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


9 

and with a sudden darting movement wiped away 
some froth from the pale lips. Then she too knelt 
and she kissed the brow. Her husband lifted the 
dead right hand to hold it for a while. And then 
he reached across to the key chain, took off the keys, 
slipped them into his pocket and helped his wife to 
her feet. 

Reggie turned a still expressionless face on Lomas. 
Lomas still exhibited grave official sorrow. 

“Well—er—thanks very much for all you’ve 
done,” Major Dean addressed them both. “You’ve 
been very kind. We feel that. And if you will let 
me know as soon as you know anything—rather a 
relief.” 

“Quite, quite.” Lomas held out his hand; Major 
Dean took it. “Yes, I’m so sorry, but you see we 
must take charge of everything for the present.” 
He let the Major’s hand go and still held out his own. 

Dean flushed. “What, his keys?” 

“Thank you,” said Lomas, and at last received 
them. 

“I was thinking about his papers, you know.” 

“I can promise you they’ll be safe.” 

“Oh, well, that settles it!” Dean laughed. “You 
know where to find me,” and he took his wife, who 
was plainly eager to speak to him, away. 

Lomas dandled the keys in his hand. “I wonder 
what’s in their minds? And what’s in yours, For¬ 
tune ?” 


10 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“Man was murdered,” said Reggie. 

Lomas groaned, “I was afraid you had that for 
me. But surely it’s not possible?” 

“It ought not to be,” Reggie admitted. “At a 
quarter to one he was quite alive, rather bored per¬ 
haps, but as fit as me. At a quarter past he was 
dead. What happened in between ?” 

“Why, he was in sight the whole time-” 

“All among the most respectable people in Eng¬ 
land. Yet he dies suddenly of asphyxia and heart 
failure. Why?” 

“Well, some obscure heart trouble-—” Lomas 

protested. 

“He was in the pink. He never used doctors. 
You heard them say so. He hadn’t even been to an 
oculist.” 

“A fellow doesn’t always know,” Lomas urged. 
“There are all sorts of heart weakness.” 

“Not this sort.” Reggie shook his head. “And 
the eyes. Did you see how those two were afraid of 
his eyes? Your eyes won’t look like that when you 
die of heart failure. They might if an oculist had 
put belladonna in ’em to examine you. But there 
was no oculist. Dilated pupils, foam at the mouth, 
cold flesh. He was poisoned. It might have been 
aconitine. But aconitine don’t kill so quick or quite 
so quiet.” 

“What is aconitine?” 

“Oh, wolf-bane. Blue-rocket. You can get it 



THE ASCOT TRAGEDY n 

from other plants. Only this is too quick. It slew 
him like prussic acid and much more peacefully. 
Some alkaloid poison of the aconite family, possibly 
unclassified. Probably it was put into him by that 
fresh puncture in his hand while he was packed in the 
crowd, just a scratch, just a jab with a hollow needle. 
An easy murder if you could trust your stuff. And 
when we do the post-mortem we’ll find that every¬ 
thing points to death by a poison we can’t trace.” 

“Thanks, so much,” said Lomas. “It is for this 
we employ experts.” 

“Well, the police also must earn their bread. Who 
is he?” 

“He was the great authority on the middle East. 
Old Indian civilian long retired. Lately political 
adviser to the Government of Media. You know all 
that.” 

“Yes. Who wanted him dead?” said Reggie. 

“Oh, my dear fellow!” Lomas spread out his 
hands. “The world is wide.” 

“Yes. The world also is very evil. The time also 
is waxing late. Same like the hymn says. What 
about those papers son and co. were so keen on?” 

Lomas laughed. “If you could believe I have a 
little intelligence, it would so soothe me. Our people 
have been warned to take charge of his flat.” 

“Active fellow. Let’s go and see what they 
found.” 

It was not much more than an hour before a police- 


12 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


man was letting them into Sir Arthur Dean’s flat in 
Westminster. An inspector of police led the way to 
the study. “Anything of interest, Morton?” Lomas 
said. 

“Well, sir, nothing you could call out of the way. 
When we came, the servants had heard of the death 
and they were upset. Sir Arthur’s man, he opened 
the door to me fairly crying. Been with him thirty 
years, fine old-fashioned fellow, would be talking 
about his master.” 

Lomas and Reggie looked at each other, but the 
inspector swept on. 

“Then in this room, sir, there was Sir Arthur’s 
executor, Colonel Osbert, getting out papers, I had 
to tell him that wouldn’t do. Rather stiff he was. 
He is a military man. Well, sir, I put it to him, 
orders are orders, and he took it very well. But he 
let me see pretty plain he didn’t like it. He was 
quite the gentleman, but he put it to me we had no 
business in Sir Arthur’s affairs unless we thought 
there was foul play. Well, of course, I couldn’t 
answer that. He talked a good deal, fishing, you 
might say. All he got out of me was that I couldn’t 
allow anything to be touched. So he said he would 
take it up with the Commissioner and went off. 
That’s all, sir.” 

“Who is he?” said Reggie. 

“His card, sir. Colonel Osbert, late Indian 
Army.” 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


i3 

“Do you know if he was who he said he was?” 
Lomas asked. 

The inspector was startled. “Well, sir, the serv¬ 
ants knew him. Sir Arthur’s man, he let him in, says 
he’s Sir Arthur’s oldest friend. I had no reason to 
detain him.” 

“That’s all right, Morton,” said Lomas. “Well, 
what time did you get here?” 

“Your message came two o’clock, sir. I should 
say we were here by a quarter past.” 

Lomas nodded and dismissed him. “Quick work,” 
he said with a cock of his eye at Reggie. 

“We can time it all by the King. He drove up the 
course at ten past one. Till the procession came Sir 
Arthur was alive. We didn’t pick him up till five 
minutes after, at the least. No one knew he was 
dead till you had examined him. No one knew then 
but me and my men. And yet Colonel Osbert in 
London knows of the death in time to get round here 
and get to work on the dead man’s papers before two- 
fifteen. He knew the man was dead as soon as we 
did who were looking at the body. Damme, he has 
very early information.” 

“Yes. One to you, Lomas. And a nasty one for 
Colonel Osbert. Our active and intelligent police 
force. If you hadn’t been up and doing and sent 
your bright boys round, Colonel Osbert might have 
got away with what he wanted. And he wouldn’t 
have had to explain how he knew too much.” 


14 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“When was the poison given ? Say between five 
to one and ten past. At that time the murderer was 
in the Royal Enclosure. If he had his car waiting 
handy, could he get here before two-fifteen?” 

“Well—if his car was a flier, and there were no 
flies on his chauffeur and he had luck all the way, I 
suppose it’s possible. But I don’t believe in it. I 
should say Osbert didn’t do the job.” 

Lomas sprang up and called the inspector. He 
wanted to know what Colonel Osbert was wearing. 
Colonel Osbert was in a lounge suit of grey flannel. 
Lomas sat down again and lit a cigarette. “I’m 
afraid that will do for an alibi, Fortune,” he sighed. 

“Your hypothetical murderer was in the Royal En¬ 
closure. Therefore-” 

“He was in topper and tails, same like us. The 
uniform of respectability. Of course, he could have 
done a change in his car. But I don’t think it. No. 
Osbert won’t do. But what was he after ?” 

Lomas stood up and looked round the room. It 
had the ordinary furniture of an old-fashioned study 
and in addition several modern steel chests of draw¬ 
ers for filing documents. “Well, he set some value 
on his papers,” Lomas said. 

“Lots of honest toil before you, Lomas, old thing.” 
Reggie smiled, and while Lomas fell to work with 
the keys he wandered about picking up a bowl here, 
a brass tray there. “He kept to his own line,” he 
remarked. “Everything is Asiatic.” 



THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


15 

“You may well say so,” Lomas groaned, frowning 
over a mass of papers. 

But Reggie’s attention was diverted. Somebody 
had rung the bell and there was talk in the hall. He 
made out a woman’s voice. “I fancy this is our 
young friend the daughter-in-law,” he murmured. 

Lomas looked up at him. “I had a notion you 
didn’t take to her, Fortune. Do you want to see 
her?” 

“God forbid,” said Reggie. “She’s thin, Lomas, 
she’s too thin.” 

In a moment or two a discreet tap introduced 
Inspector Morton. “Mrs. Dean, deceased’s daugh¬ 
ter-in-law, sir,” he reported. “Asked to see the 
man-servant. I saw no objection, me being present. 
They were both much distressed, sir. She asked him 
if Colonel Osbert had been here. Seemed upset 
when she heard he was here before us. Asked if he 
had taken anything away. The servant told her we 
weren’t letting anything be touched. That didn’t 
seem to satisfy her. She said something nasty about 
the police being always too late. Meant for me, I 
suppose.” 

“I rather fancy it was meant for me,” said Reggie. 
“It’s a bad business.” 

“I don’t think the Colonel got away with any¬ 
thing, sir. He was sitting down to the diary on the 
table there when we came in.” 

“All right.” Lomas waved him away. “Damme, 


i6 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


it is a bad business. What am I to do with this, 
Fortune ?” He held up papers in a strange script, 
papers of all sorts and sizes, some torn and dis¬ 
coloured, some fresh. 

Reggie went to look. “Arabic,” he said. “And 
this is Persian.” He studied them for a while. “A 
sort of dossier, a lot of evidence about some case or 
person. Lomas old thing, you’ll have to call in the 
Foreign Office.” 

“Lord, we can translate them ourselves. It’s the 
mass of it!” 

“Yes, lot of light reading. I think I should have 
a talk to the Foreign Office. Well, that’s your show. 
Me for the body.” 

Lomas lay back in his chair. “What’s in your 
head?” 

“I won’t let anything into my head. There is no 
evidence. But I’m wondering if we’ll ever get any. 
It’s a beautiful crime—as a crime. A wicked world, 
Lomas old thing.” 

On the day after, Reggie Fortune came into 
Lomas’s room at Scotland Yard and shook his head 
and lit one of Lomas’s largest cigars and fell into a 
chair. “Unsatisfactory, highly unsatisfactory,” he 
announced. “I took Harvey down with me. You 
couldn’t have a better opinion except mine, and he 
agrees with me.” 

“And what do you say?” 

“I say, nothing doing. He had no medical his- 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


17 

tory. There was nothing the matter with the man, 
yet he died of heart failure and suffocation. That 
means poisoning by aconitine or a similar alkaloid. 
But there is no poison in the price list which would 
in a quarter of an hour kill quietly and without fuss a 
man in perfect health. I have no doubt a poison 
was injected into him by that puncture on the hand, 
but I don’t know what it was. We’ll have some 
analysis done, of course, but I expect nothing of that. 
There’ll be no trace.” 

“Unique case.” 

“I wouldn’t say that. You remember I thought 
General Blaker was poisoned. He was mixed up 
with Asiatics too. There were queer circumstances 
about the death of that Greek millionaire in Rome 
two years ago. The world’s old and men have been 
poisoning each other for five thousand years and 
science only began to look into it yesterday. There’s 
a lot of drugs in the world that you can’t buy at the 
chemist’s.” 

“Good Gad,” Lomas protested, “we’re in Scot¬ 
land Yard, not the ‘Arabian Nights.’ What you 
mean is you can’t do anything?” 

“Even so. Can you? Who wanted him dead?” 

“Nobody but a lunatic. He had no money to 
leave. He was on the best terms with his son. He 
was a popular old boy, never had an enemy. He had 
no secrets—most respectable—lived all his life in 
public.” 


18 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“And yet his son snatched at his keys before he 
was cold. And his dear old friend Osbert knew of 
his death before he was dead and made a bee-line for 
his papers. By the way, what was in his papers ?” 

Lomas shrugged. “Our fellows are working at 
’em.” 

“And who is Osbert?” 

“Well, you know, he’s coming to see me. He put 
in his protest to the Commissioner, and they were 
going to turn him down, of course. But I thought 
I’d like to listen to Colonel Osbert.” 

“Me too,” said Reggie. 

“By all means, my dear fellow. But he seems 
quite genuine. He is the executor. He is an old 
friend, about the oldest living. Not a spot on his 
record. Long Indian service.” 

“Only son and daughter don’t seem to trust him. 
Only he also is a bit Asiatic.” 

“Oh, my dear Fortune-” Lomas was protest¬ 

ing when Colonel Osbert came. 

You will find a hundred men like him on any day 
in the service clubs. He was small and brown and 
neat, even dapper, but a tri'fle stiff in the joints. His 
manner of speech was a. drawl concluding with a 
bark. 

Reggie lay back in his chair and admired the bland 
fluency with which Lomas said nothing in reply to 
the parade-ground demands of Colonel Osbert. 



THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


19 


Colonel Osbert wanted to know (if we may reduce 
many sentences to one) what Lomas meant by refus¬ 
ing him possession of Sir Arthur Dean’s papers. 
And Lomas continued to reply that he meant nothing 
in particular. 

“ Sudden death at Ascot—in the Royal Enclosure 
too,” he explained. “That’s very startling and con¬ 
spicuous. The poor fellow hadn’t been ill, as far as 
we can learn. Naturally we have to seek for any 
explanation.” 

So at last Osbert came out with: “What sir, you 
don’t mean to say, sir—suspect foul play?” 

“Oh, my dear Colonel, you wouldn’t suggest 
that?” 

“I, sir? Never entered my head. Poor dear 
Arthur! A shock, sir. A blow! Getting old, of 
course, like the rest of us.” 

“Ah, had he been failing?” said Reggie sympa¬ 
thetically. 

“Well, well, well. We none of us grow younger, 
sir.” Colonel Osbert shook his head. “But upon my 
soul, Mr. Lomas, I don’t understand the action of 
your department.” 

“I’m so sorry you should say that,” Lomas sighed. 
“Now I wonder if you have particular reason for 
wanting Sir Arthur’s papers at once?” 

“My good sir, I am his executor. It’s my duty to 
take charge of his papers.” 


20 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“Quite, quite. Well, they’re all safe, you know. 
His death must have been a great shock to you, 
Colonel.” 

“Shock, sir? A blow, a blow. Poor dear 
Arthur!” 

“Yes, too bad,” Lomas mourned: and voice and 
face were all kindly innocence as he babbled on: “I 
suppose you heard about it from his son?” 

Colonel Osbert paused to clear his throat. Colonel 
Osbert stopped that one. “Major Dean? No, sir. 
No. Point of fact, I don’t know who the fellow was. 
Some fellow called me up on the ’phone and told me 
poor dear Arthur had fallen down dead on the course. 
Upon my soul, I was knocked over, absolutely 
knocked over. When I came to myself I rushed 
round to secure his papers.” 

“Why, did you think somebody would be after 
them ?” 

“My dear sir!” Colonel Osbert protested. 
“Really, now really. It was my duty. Arthur was 
always very strict with his papers. I thought of his 
wishes.” 

“Quite, quite,” Lomas purred, and artless as ever 
he went on: “Mrs. Dean was round at the flat too.” 

“God bless my soul!” said Colonel Osbert. 

“I wonder if you could tell me: is there anyone 
who would have an interest in getting hold of his 
papers ?” 

Colonel Osbert again cleared his throat. “I can 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


21 


tell you this, sir. I don’t understand the position of 
Mrs. Dean and her husband. And I shall be glad, I 
don’t mind owning, I shall be very glad to have poor 
dear Arthur’s papers in my hands.” 

“Ah, thank you so much,” said Lomas, and with 
bland adroitness got Colonel Osbert outside the 
door. 

“He’s not such a fool as he looks,” Reggie mur¬ 
mured. “But there’s better brains in it than his, 
Lomas old thing. A bad business, quite a bad busi¬ 
ness.” 

And then a clerk came in. Lomas read the letter 
he brought and said: “Good Gad! You’re an 
offensive person, Fortune. Why did you tell me to 
go to the Foreign Office ? Here is the Foreign Office. 
Now we shall be in the affair for life. The Foreign 
Office wants me to see His Excellency Mustapha 
Firouz.” 

“Accompanied by Sinbad the Sailor and Chu 
Chin Chow ?” said Reggie. “Who is he ?” 

“Oh, he’s quite real. He’s the Median Minister. 
He—Why what is it now?” The question was to 
the clerk, who had come back with a card. 

“Says he’s anxious to see you immediately, sir.. 
It’s very urgent, and he won’t keep you long.” 

“Major Dean,” Lomas read, and lifted an eye¬ 
brow. 

“Oh rather. Let ’em all come,” said Reggie. 

It was Major Dean, and Major Dean ill at ease. 


22 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


He had a difficulty in beginning. He discovered 
Reggie. “Hallo! I say, can you tell me anything?” 
he blurted out. 

“I can’t,” said Reggie sharply. “I don’t know 
why your father died,” and Major Dean winced. 

“I thought you had something to tell us, Major,” 
Lomas said. 

“Do you believe he was murdered? I’ve a right 
to ask that.” 

“But it’s a very grave suggestion,” Lomas purred. 
“Do you know of anyone who had a motive for 
killing your father?” 

“It’s this filthy mystery,” the Major cried. “If 
he was murdered, I suppose he was poisoned. But 
how?” 

“Or why?” said Reggie. 

The Major fidgeted. “I dare say he knew too 
much,” he said. “You know he was the adviser to 
the Median Government. He had some pretty seri¬ 
ous stuff through his hands. I don’t know what. He 
was always great on official secrecy. But I know 
he thought it was pretty damning for some one.” 

“Ah, thanks very much,” Lomas said. 

But the Major seemed unable to go. 

“I mean to say, make sure you have all his papers 
and stick to ’em.” 

Lomas and Reggie studied him. “I wonder why 
you say that?” Lomas asked. “The papers would 
naturally pass to Colonel Osbert.” 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


23 

“I know. Osbert was the guv’nor’s best pal, 
worse luck. I wouldn’t trust him round the corner. 
That’s what I mean. Now I’ve done it, I suppose”; 
he gave a grim chuckle. “It is done, anyway”; 
and he was in a hurry to go. 

Reggie stood up and stretched himself. “This is 
pretty thick,” said he, “and we’ve got His Excel¬ 
lency the Pasha of Nine Tales on the doorstep.” 

Into the room was brought a man who made them 
feel short, a towering man draped in folds of white. 
Above that flowing raiment rose a majestic head, a 
head finely proportioned, framed in hair and beard of 
black strewn with grey. The face was aquiline and 
bold, but of a singular calm, and the dark eyes were 
veiled in thought. He bowed to each man twice, sat 
down and composed his robe about him, and it was 
long before he spoke. “I thank you for your great 
courtesy”: each word came alone as if it was hard 
to him. “I have this to say. He who is gone he 
was the friend of my people. To him we turned 
always and he did not fail. In him we had our 
trust. Now, sir, I must tell you we have our enemies, 
who are also, as it seems to us, your enemies. Those 
whom you call the Turks, they would do evil to us 
which would be evil to you. Of this we had writings 
in their hands and the hands of those they use. 
These I gave to him who is gone that he should tell 
us what we should do. For your ways are not our 
ways nor your law our law. Now he is gone, and I 


24 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


am troubled lest those papers fall again into the 
hands of the Turks.” 

“Who is it that Your Excellency fears ? Can you 
tell me of any man?” Lomas said. 

“I know of none here. For the Turks are not 
here in the open and this is a great land of many 
people. Yet in all lands all things can be bought at 
a price. Even life and death. This only I say. If 
our papers go to your King and the Ministers of 
your King it is well and very well. If they are ren¬ 
dered to me that also may be well. But if they go 
I know not where, I say this is not just.” 

“I can promise Your Excellency they will go be¬ 
fore the Foreign Office.” 

The Median stood up and bowed. “In England I 
never seek justice in vain,” he said. 

And when he was gone, “Good Gad, how little he 
knows,” said Lomas. “Well, Fortune?” but Reggie 
only lit a cigar and curled himself up on the sofa. 
“What I like about you is that you never say I 
told you so. But you did. It is a Foreign Office 
touch,” and still Reggie silently smoked. “Why, 
the thing’s clear enough, isn’t it ?” 

“Clear?” said Reggie. “Oh Peter! Clear?” 

“Well, Sir Arthur had in his hands papers damag¬ 
ing to these blood-and-thunder Young Turks. It 
occurred to them that if he could die suddenly they 
might arrange to get the papers into their hands. 
So Sir Arthur is murdered, and either Osbert the 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


25 

executor or Major Dean the son is bribed to hand 
over the papers.” 

“In the words of the late Tennyson,” said Reggie, 

“And if it is so, so it is, you know 
And if it be so, so be it. 

But it’s not interesting, Lomas old thing.” 

“It would be interesting to hear you find a flaw 
in it,” said Lomas. 

Reggie shook his head. “Nary flaw.” 

“For my part,” said Lomas with some heat, “i 
prefer to understand why a crime was committed. I 
find it useful. But I am only a policeman.” 

“And so say all of us.” Reggie sat up. “Then 
why talk like a politician ? Who did it and how are 
we going to do him in? That’s our little job.” 

“Whoever it was, we’ve killed him,” said Lomas. 
“He has got nothing for his pains. The papers will 
go before the Foreign Office and then back to the 
Median Legation. A futile crime. I find a good 
deal of satisfaction in that.” 

“You’re easy pleased then.” Reggie’s amiability 
was passing away. “A futile crime: thanks to the 
active and intelligent police force. But damn it, the 
man was murdered.” 

“My dear Fortune, can I help it? It’s not the 
first and it won’t be the last murder in which there 
is no evidence. You’re pleased to be bitter about it. 
But you can’t even tell me how the man was mur- 


26 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


dered. A poison unknown to the twentieth-century 
expert. No doubt that annoys you. But you 
needn’t turn and rend me. There is also one more 
murderer unknown to the twentieth-century police¬ 
man. But I can’t make evidence any more than you. 
We suspect either Osbert or Major Dean had a hand 
in it. But we don’t know which and we don’t know 
that either was the murderer. If we could prove 
that they were mixed up with the Young Turks, if we 
knew the man they dealt with we should have no 
case against them. Why, if we could find some 
Young Turk hireling was in the Royal Enclosure we 
should have no proof he was the murderer. We 
couldn’t have,” Lomas shrugged. “Humanly speak¬ 
ing, it’s a case in which there can be no conviction.” 

“My only aunt, don’t I know that ?” Reggie cried. 
“And do you remember what the old Caliph said, 
Tn England I never seek justice in vain’? Well, 
that stings, Lomas—humanly speaking.” 

“Great heavens, what am I to do? What do you 
want to do?” 

Reggie Fortune looked at him. The benign face 
of Reggie Fortune was set in hard lines. “There’s 
something about the voice of a brother’s blood crying 
from the ground,” he said slowly. 

“My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow, if you are 
going to preach,” Lomas protested. 

“I’m not. I’m going to tea,” said Reggie Fortune. 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 27 

“Elsie has got the trick of some new cakes. They're 
somewhat genial." 

They did not meet again till the inquest. 

It was horribly hot in court. The newspaper 
reporters of themselves would have filled, if given 
adequate space, a larger room. They sat in each 
other s pockets and thus yielded places to the general 
public, represented by a motley collection of those 
whom the coroner's officer permitted himself to call 
Nosey Parkers: frocks which might have come out 
of a revue chorus beside frocks which would well 
become a charwoman. And the Hon. Sidney Lomas 
murmured in the ear of his henchman Superintend¬ 
ent Bell, “I see several people who ought to be 
hanged, Bell, but no one who will give us the chance." 

Mr. Reginald Fortune, that eminent surgeon, 
pathologist and what not, called to the witness-box, 
was languid and visibly bored with the whole affair. 
He surveyed the court in one weary, dreamy glance 
and gazed at the coroner as if seeking, but without 
hope, some reason for his unpleasant existence. Yes, 
he had seen Sir Arthur immediately after death. He 
had formed the opinion that Sir Arthur died of 
asphyxia and heart failure. Yes, heart failure and 
asphyxia. He was, however, surprised. 

From the reporters' table there was a general look 
of hungry interest. But one young gentleman who 
had grown fat in the service of crime breathed heav- 


28 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


ily in his neighbour’s ear: “Nothing doing: I know 
old Fortune. This is a wash-out.” 

Mr. Fortune had lost interest in his own evidence. 
He was looking sleepily round the court. The 
coroner had to recall his wandering mind. “You 
were surprised, Mr. Fortune?” 

“Oh, ah. Well, I couldn’t explain the suddenness 
of the attack, the symptoms and so forth. So with 
the assistance of Dr. Harvey I made a further ex¬ 
amination. We went into the matter with care 
and used every known test. There is no evidence to 
be found that any other factor was present than the 
natural causes of death.” 

“But that does not explain the sudden failure of 
the heart.” 

“I don’t explain it,” said Reggie. “I can’t.” 

“Medicine,” said the coroner sagely, “still has its 
mysteries. We must remember, gentlemen, that Sir 
Arthur had already completed our allotted span, the 
Psalmist’s threescore years and ten. I am much 
obliged to you, Mr. Fortune.” 

And after that, as the fat young gentleman com¬ 
plained, there was nothing in it. The jury found 
that Sir Arthur’s death was from natural causes and 
that they sympathized with the family. So much 
for the Ascot mystery. There remains the sequel. 

When the court broke up and sought, panting, the 
open air, “He is neat, sir, isn’t he?” said Lomas’s 
henchman, Superintendent Bell. “Very adroit, is 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


29 

Mr. Fortune. That couldn’t have been much better 
done.” And Lomas smiled. It was in each man’s 
simple heart that the Criminal Investigation Depart¬ 
ment was well rid of a bad business. They sought 
Reggie to give him lunch. 

But Reggie was already outside; Reggie was 
strolling, as one for whom time has no meaning, 
towards the station. He was caught up by the plump 
young reporter, who would like you to call him a 
crime specialist. “Well, Mr. Fortune,” he said in his 
ingratiating way, “good morning. How are you, sir? 
I say, you have put it across us in the Dean case.” 

The crime specialist then had opportunities for 
psychological study as Mr. Fortune’s expression per¬ 
formed a series of quick changes. But it settled 
down into bland and amiable surprise. “My dear 
fellow,” said Mr. Fortune, “how are you? But 
what’s the trouble? There’s nothing in the Dean 
case, never was.” 

“No, that’s just it. And we were all out for a 
first-class crime story. After all the talk there’s 
been, natural causes is pretty paltry.” 

Reggie laughed. “Sorry, sorry. We can’t make 
crimes for you. But why did you talk ? There was 
nothing to talk about.” 

“I say, you know, that’s a bit thick,” the crime 
specialist protested. 

“My dear chap,” said Reggie modestly, “if the 
doctor on the spot hadn’t happened to be me, you 


3 o MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

would never have thought of the case Nothing else 
in it.” 

“Oh, well, come now, Mr. Fortune! I mean to 
say—what about the C.I.D. holding up all the old 
man’s papers and turning down his executor?” 

Reggie was not surprised, he was bewildered. 
“Say it again slowly and distinctly,” he entreated, 
and when that was done he was as one who tries not 
to laugh. “And very nice too. My dear fellow, 
what more do you want? There’s a story for you.” 

“Well, it’s never been officially denied,” said the 
young man. 

“Fancy that!” Reggie chuckled. 

“But between ourselves, Mr. Fortune-” 

“It’s a great story,” Reggie chuckled. “But 
really—Well, I ask you!” and he slid away. 

In the hotel lounge he found Bell and Lomas and 
cocktails. “Pleasure before business, as ever,” he 
reproached them, and ordered one for himself. 

“And what have you been doing, then?” Lomas 
asked. 

“I have been consoling the Fourth Estate. That 
great institution the Press, Mr. Lomas, sir. Through 
one of Gilligan’s young lions. Out of the mouths 
of babes and sucklings-” 

“I wish you wouldn’t talk to reporters,” Lomas 
complained. 

“You’re so haughty. By the way, what was 
Ludlow Blenkinhorn doing here?” He referred to 



THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


3i 

a solicitor of more ability than standing. “Osbert 
was here and his solicitor, the young Deans and their 
solicitor. Who was old Blenkinhorn representing ?” 

Bell and Lomas looked at each other. “Didn’t 
see the fellow,” said Lomas. 

“Mr. Fortune’s quite right, sir. Blenkinhorn 
was standing with the public. And that’s odd, 
too.” 

“Highly odd. Lomas, my dear old thing, I wish 
you’d watch Blenkinhorn’s office and Osbert’s flat 
for any chaps who look a bit exotic, a bit foreign— 
and follow him up if you find one.” 

Lomas groaned. “Surely we’ve done with the 
case.” 

“Ye-es. But there’s some fellow who hasn’t. 
And he has a pretty taste in poisons. And he’s still 
wanting papers.” 

“We’ve nothing to act on, you know,” Lomas 
protested. 

“Oh, not a thing, not a thing. But he might 
have.” 

Lomas nodded and Superintendent Bell went to 
the telephone. 

When Mr. Fortune read “The Daily Post” in the 
morning he smiled upon his devilled kidneys. Its 
report of the inquest was begun with a little pompous 
descriptive work. “The mystery of the Ascot 
Tragedy was solved yesterday. In the cold sanity of 
the coroner’s court the excitement of the last few 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


32 

days received its quietus. Two minutes of scientific 
evidence from Mr. Fortune—” and so on until young 
omniscience worked up to its private little scoop. 
“The melodramatic rumours of sensational develop¬ 
ments in the case have thus only availed to expose 
the fatuity of their inventors.” (This was meant for 
some rival papers.) “It may now be stated bluntly 
that nothing in the case ever gave rise to speculation 
among well-informed people, and that the stories of 
impounding documents and so forth have no founda¬ 
tion in fact.” 

But about lunch time Mr. Fortune received a curt 
summons from the Hon. Sidney Lomas and instantly 
obeyed it. “Well, you know, I thought I should be 
hearing from you,” he smiled. “I felt, as it were, 
you couldn’t live without me long.” 

“Did you, by Jove!” said Lomas bitterly. “I’ve 
been wishing all the morning you had been dead some 
time. Look at that!” He tossed across the table a 
marked copy of “The Daily Post.” 

“Yes, I was enjoying that at breakfast. A noble 
institution, the British Press, Lomas. A great 
power. If you know how to use it.” 

“I wish to God you wouldn’t spoof reporters. It’s 
a low taste. And it’s a damned nuisance. I can’t 
contradict the rag and-” 

“No, you can’t contradict it. I banked on that,” 
Reggie chuckled. 



THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


33 

“Did you indeed? And pray what the devil are 
you at? I have had Osbert here raving mad-” 

“Yes, I thought it would stir up Osbert. What’s 
his line?” 

“Wants the papers, of course. And as you very 
well know, confound you, they’re all at the Foreign 
Office, the cream of them, and likely to be. He says 
we’ve no right to keep them after this. Nonsense, 
of course, but devilish inconvenient to answer. And 
at last the old man was quite pathetic, says it isn’t 
fair to him to give out we haven’t touched the 
papers. No more it is. He was begging me to 
contradict it officially. I could hardly get rid of 
him.” 

“Busy times for Lomas.” 

“Damme, I have been at it all the morning. Old 
Ludlow Blenkinhorn turned up, too.” 

“I have clicked, haven’t I?” Reggie chuckled. 

“Confound you. He says he has a client with 
claims on the estate and is informed by the executor 
that all papers have been taken by us. Now he has 
read your damned article and he wants to know if 
the executor is lying.” 

“That is a conundrum, isn’t it ? And who is Mr. 
Ludlow Blenkinhorn’s client?” 

“He didn’t say, of course.” 

“What a surprise. And your fellows watching 
his office, do they say?” 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


34 

Lomas took up a scrap of paper. “They have 
sent us something. A man of foreign or mulatto 
appearance called on him first thing this morning. 
Was followed to a Bays water lodging-house. Is 
known there as Sherif. Mr. A. Sheri f. Thought 
to be an Egyptian.” 

“The negro or Hamitic heel!” Reggie murmured. 
“Do you remember, Lomas old thing?” 

“Good Gad!” Lomas dropped his eyeglass. “But 
what the devil can we do?” 

“Watch and pray,” said Reggie. “Your fellows 
watch Sheri f and Blenkinhom and Osbert and you 
pray. Do you pray much, Lomas?” 

They went in fact to lunch. They were not long 
back when a detective speaking over the telephone 
reported that a man of mulatto appearance had 
called on Colonel Osbert. Reggie sprang up. “Come 
on, Lomas. We’ll have them in the act and bluff 
the whole thing out of them.” 

“What act?” 

“Collusion. This Egyptian-Syrian-negroid-Young 
Turk and the respectable executor. Come on, man.” 

In five minutes they were mounting to Colonel 
Osbert’s flat. His servant could not say whether 
Colonel Osbert was at home. Lomas produced his 
card. “Colonel Osbert will see me,” he announced, 
and fixed the man with a glassy stare. 

“Well, sir, I beg pardon, sir. There’s a gentle¬ 
man with him.” 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 


35 

“At once,” said Lomas and walked into the hall. 

The man still hesitated. From one of the rooms 
could be heard voices in some excitement. Lomas 
and Reggie made for that door. But as they ap¬ 
proached there was a cry, a horrible shrill cry, and 
the sound of a scuffle. Reggie sprang forward. 
Some one rushed out of the room and Reggie, the 
smaller man, went down before him. Lomas 
clutched at him and was kicked in the stomach. The 
fellow was off. Reggie picked himself out of the 
hatstand and ran after him. Lomas, in a heap, 
gasping and hiccoughing, fumbled in his pocket. 
“B-b-blow,” he stammered to the stupefied servant, 
and held out a whistle. “Like hell. Blow !” 

A long peal sounded through the block of flats. 

Down below a solid man strolled out of the porter’s 
lodge just as a gentleman of dark complexion and 
large feet was hurrying through the door. The solid 
man put out a leg. Another solid man outside 
received the gentleman on his bosom. They had 
then some strenuous moments. By the time Reggie 
reached them three hats were on the ground, but 
a pair of handcuffs clasped the coffee-coloured wrists. 

“His pockets,” Reggie panted, “his waistcoat 
pockets.” 

The captive said something which no one under¬ 
stood, and struggled. One of the detectives held out 
a small white-metal case. Reggie took from it a 
hypodermic syringe. “I didn’t think you were so 


36 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

up-to-date,” said Reggie. “What did you put in 
it? Well, well, I suppose you won’t tell me. Take 
him away.” 

He went back to find Lomas and the servant look¬ 
ing at Colonel Osbert. Colonel Osbert lay on the 
floor. There was froth at his lips and on his wrist a 
spot of blood. Reggie knelt down beside him. . . . 

“Too late?” Lomas said hoarsely. 

Reggie rose. “Well, you can put it that way,” he 
said. “It’s the end.” 

In Lomas’s room Reggie spread himself on a sofa 
and watched Lomas drink whisky and soda. “A 
ghastly business,” Lomas said: he was still pale and 
unsteady. “That creature is a wild beast.” 

“He’ll go where he belongs,” said Reggie, who was 
eating bread and butter. “All according to plan.” 

“Plan? My God, the man runs amuck!” 

“Oh, no, no, no. He wanted those papers for his 
employers. He contracted with Osbert to hand them 
over when Dean was dead. He murdered Dean 
and Osbert couldn’t deliver the goods. So I told 
him through the papers that Osbert had them. He 
thought Osbert was bilking him and went to have it 
out with him. Osbert didn’t satisfy him, he was 
sure he had been done and he made Osbert pay for it. 
All according to plan.” 

Lomas set down his glass. “Fortune,” he said 
nervously, “Fortune—do you mean—when you put 


THE ASCOT TRAGEDY 37 

that in the paper—you meant the thing to end like 
this?” 

"Well, what are we here for?” said Reggie. "But 
you know you’re forgetting the real interest of the 
case.” 

"Am I?” said Lomas weakly. 

"Yes. What is his poison?” 

"Oh, good Gad,” said Lomas. 


CASE II 

THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 

M R. REGINALD FORTUNE lay in a long 
chair. On his right hand a precipice fell 
to still black water. On his left the 
mountains rose into a tiara of snow. Far away in 
front sunlight found the green flood of a glacier. 
But Mr. Fortune saw none of these things. He was 
eating strawberries and cream. 

The Hon. Sidney Lomas, Chief of the Criminal 
Investigation Department, disguised as a blood¬ 
thirsty fisherman, arrived stiffly but happy, and 
behind him a large Norwegian bore the corpses of 
two salmon into the farm-house. “The lord high 
detective,” Reggie murmured. “An allegorical pic¬ 
ture, by the late Mr. Watts.” 

“Great days,” Lomas said, and let himself down 
gingerly into a chair. “Hallo, has there been a 
post ?” He reached for one of the papers at Reggie’s 
feet. “My country, what of thee?” 

“They’re at it again, Lomas. They’ve murdered 
a real live lord.” 


38 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 39 

“Thank heaven I’m not there. Who is it?” 

“One Carwell. In the wilds of the Midlands.” 

“Young Carwell ? He’s a blameless youth to slay. 
What happened?” 

“They found him in his library with his head 
smashed. Queer case.” 

Lomas read the report, which had nothing more 
to tell. “Burglary, I suppose,” he pronounced. 

“Well, I have an alibi,” said Reggie. 

Neither the Chief of the Criminal Investigation 
Department nor his scientific adviser saw any reason 
to end a good holiday for the sake of avenging Lord 
Carwell. The policemen who dealt with the affair 
did not call for help. Mr. Fortune and Mr. Lomas 
continued to catch the salmon and eat the straw¬ 
berries of Norway and let the world go by and be¬ 
came happily out of date. It was not till they were 
on the North Sea that they met the Carwell case 
again. 

The Newcastle packet was rolling in a slow, heavy 
rhythm. Most of the passengers had succumbed. 
Lomas and Reggie fitted themselves and two chairs 
into a corner of the upper deck with all the London 
newspapers that were waiting for them at Bergen. 
Lomas, a methodical man, began at the beginning. 
Reggie worked back from the end. And in a moment, 
“My only aunt!” he said softly. “Lomas, old thing, 
they’re doing themselves proud. Who do you think 
they’ve taken for the Carwell murder ? The cousin, 


40 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


the heir, one Mark Carwell. This is highly 
intriguing.’’ 

“Good Gad!” 

“As you say,” Reggie agreed. “Yes. Public 
Prosecutor on it. Old Brunker leading for the 
Crown. Riding pretty hard, too. The man Mark 
is for it, I fear, Lomas. They do these things quite 
neatly without us. It’s all very disheartening.” 

“Mark Carwell? A harum-scarum young ruffian 
he always was.” 

“Yes. Have you noticed these little things mean 
much? I haven’t.” 

“What’s the case?” 

“The second housemaid found Lord Carwell sit¬ 
ting in the library with his head smashed. He was 
dead. The doctor came up in half an hour, found 
him cold, and swears he had been dead five or six 
hours. Cause of death—brain injury from the blow 
given by some heavy, blunt instrument. No one in 
the house had heard a sound. No sign of burglary, 
no weapon. There was a small house-party, the man 
Mark, the girl Carwell was engaged to, Lady Violet 
Barclay and her papa and mama, and Sir Brian 
Carwell—that’s the contractor, some sort of distant 
cousin. Mark was left with Lord Carwell when the 
rest of them went to bed. Lady Violet and papa and 
mamma say they heard a noisy quarrel. Violet says 
Carwell had told her before that Mark was writing to 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 41 

him for money to get married on, and Carwell didn’t 
approve of the girl.” 

“I don’t fancy Carwell would approve of the kind 
of girl Mark would want to marry.” 

“Yes, that’s what the fair Violet implies. She 
seems to be a good hater. She did her little best to 
hang Mark.” 

“Why, if he killed her man, can you wonder?” 

“Oh, I don’t wonder. But I wouldn’t like to get 
in her way myself. Not really a nice girl. She 
swore Mark had been threatening Carwell, and 
Carwell was afraid of him. The prosecution put 
in a letter of Mark’s which talked wild about doing 
something vague and desperate if Carwell didn’t 
stump up.” 

“Did Mark go into the box?” 

“Yes. That was his error. I’m afraid he isn’t 
respectable, Lomas. He showed no seemly grief. He 
made it quite clear that he had no use for Hugo, 
Lord Carwell. He rather suggested that Hugo had 
lived to spite him, and got killed to spite him. He 
admitted all Lady Violet’s evidence and underlined 
it. He said Hugo had been more against him than 
ever since she came into the family. He owned to 
the quarrel of Hugo’s last night. Only he swore 
that he left the man alive.” 

“Well, he did his best to hang himself.” 

“As you say. A bold, bad fellow. That’s all, 


42 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


except that cousin Mark had a big stick, a loaded 
stick with a knob head, and he took it down to 
Carwell Hall. ,, 

“What’s the verdict?” 

“To be continued in our next. The judge was 
going to sum up in the morning. In the paper we 
haven’t got.” 

Lomas lay back and watched the grey sea rise into 
sight as the boat rolled to starboard. “What do 
you make of it, Fortune?” 

“There’s the rudiments of a case,” said Reggie. 
“The Carwell estate is entailed. Mark is the heir. 
He didn’t love the man. The man was going to 
marry and that would wash out Mark. Mark was 
the last man with him, unless there is some hard 
lying. They had a row about money and girls, 
which are always infuriating, and Mark had a 
weapon handy which might have killed him. And 
nobody else had any motive, there’s no evidence of 
anybody else in the business. Yes, the rudiments of 
a case.” 

“I don’t see the rudiments of a defence.” 

“The defence is that Mark says that he 
didn’t.” 

“Quite, quite,” Lomas nodded. “It’s not the 
strongest case in the world, but I have had convic¬ 
tions on worse. The jury will go by what they 
made of Mark in the box.” 

“And hang him for his face.” Reggie turned 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 43 

over a paper and held out the portrait of a bull¬ 
necked, square-headed young man. 

“I wouldn’t say they’d be wrong,” Lomas said. 
“Who’s the judge? Maine? He’ll keep ’em 
straight.” 

“I wonder. What is straight, Lomas?” 

“My dear fellow, it all turns on the way this lad 
gave his evidence, and that you can’t tell from a 
report.” 

“He don’t conciliate me,” Reggie murmured. 
“Yet I like evidence, Lomas,” 

“Why, this is adequate, if it’s true. And Mark 
didn’t challenge it.” 

“I know. Adequate is the word. Just enough 
and nothing more. That’s unusual, Lomas. Well, 
well. What about tea?” 

They picked their way over some prostrate bodies 
to the saloon and again gave up the Carwell 
case. 

But when the boat had made her slow way through 
the clatter of the Tyne, Reggie was quick to intercept 
the first customs officer on board. “I say, what 
was the result of that murder trial ?” 

The man laughed. “Thought you wanted the 
3.30 winner, you were so keen, sir. Oh, Mark 
Carwell’s guilty, of course. His mother’s white- 
haired boy, he is. Not ’alf.” 

“The voice of the people,” said Lomas, in 
Reggie’s ear. 


44 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


On the way to London they read the judge’s sum¬ 
ming up, an oration lucid and fair but relentless. 

“He had no doubt,” Reggie said. 

“And a good judge too,” Lomas tossed the paper 
aside. “Thank heaven they got it out of the way 
without bothering me.” 

“You are an almost perfect official,” said Reggie 
with reverence. 

In the morning when Reggie came down to his 
breakfast in London he was told that some one had 
rung up to know if he was back in England yet. He 
was only half-way through his omelet when the 
name of Miss Joan Amber was brought to him. 

Every one who likes to see a beautiful actress act, 
and many who don’t care whether she can act or not, 
know what Miss Amber looks like, that large young 
woman with the golden eyes whom Reggie hurried 
to welcome. He held her hand rather a long while. 
“The world is very good to-day,” he said, and 
inspected her. “You don’t need a holiday, Miss 
Amber.” 

“You’ve had too much, Mr. Fortune.” 

“Have you been kind enough to want me?” 

“I really meant that you looked-” she made 

a large gesture. 

“No, no—not fat,” Reggie protested. “Only 
genial. I expand in your presence.” 

“Well—round,” said Miss Amber. “And my 
presence must be very bad for you.” 



THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 45 

“No, not bad for me—only crushing.” 

“Well, I did sometimes notice you were away. 
And I want you now. For a friend of mine. Will 
you help her?” 

“When did I ever say No to you?” 

“Bless you,” said Miss Amber. “It’s the Carwell 
case.” 

“Oh, my prophetic soul,” Reggie groaned. “But 
what in wonder have you to do with the Carwell 
case ?” 

“I know Nan Nest. She’s the girl Mark Carwell 
is going to marry.” 

“Do you mind if you sit down?” said Reggie, and 
wandered away to the window. “You’re disturbing 
to the intellect, Miss Amber. Let us be calm. You 
shouldn’t talk about people marrying people and look 
like that.” Miss Amber smiled at his back. She 
has confessed to moments in which she would like to 
be Reggie Fortune’s mother. “Yes. Well now, 
does Miss Amber happen to know the man Mark?” 

“I’ve met him. He’s not a bad fellow. A first- 
class fighting-subaltern. That sort of thing.” 

Reggie nodded. “That’s his public form too.” 

“Oh, Mr. Fortune, he’s absolutely straight. Not 
a very wise youth, of course. You know, I could 
imagine him killing his cousin, but what I can’t 
imagine is that he would ever say he didn’t if he did.” 

“Yes. There weren’t any women on the jury?” 

“Don’t sneer.” 


46 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“I never do when you’re listening. That was a 
scientific statement. Now, what’s Miss Nest like?” 

“Like a jolly schoolboy. Or she was, poor child. 
Oh, they would have been splendidly happy, if that 
tiresome man had set Mark up somewhere in the 
country instead of getting himself murdered.” 

Reggie smiled sadly. “Don’t say that to anyone 
but me. Or let her say it. Why did the tiresome 
man object to her? I suppose it’s true that he 
did?” 

“Oh heavens, yes. Because she’s on the stage. 
She plays little parts, you know, flappers and such. 
She’s quite good as herself. She can’t act.” 

“What was the late Carwell? What sort of 
fellow? That didn’t come out at the trial.” 

“A priceless prig, Mark says. I suppose he was 
the last survivor of our ancient aristocracy. Poor 
Mark!” 

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. 

“What?” 

“Well”—he spread out his hands—“everything. 
You haven’t exactly cleared it up, have you?” 

“Mark told Nan he didn’t do it,” she said quietly, 
and Reggie looked into her eyes. “Oh, can’t you 
see? That’s to trust to. That’s sure.” Reggie 
turned away. “You will help her?” the low voice 
came again. 

And at last, “My dear, I daren’t say so,” Reggie 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 47 

said. “You mustn’t tell her to hope anything. I’ll 
go over all the case. But the man is condemned.” 

“Why, but there’s a court of appeal.” 

“Only for something new. And I don’t see it.” 

“Mark didn’t kill him!” she cried. 

Reggie spread out his hands. “That’s faith.” 

“Mr. Fortune! When I said I had come about 
the Carwell case, you said, ‘Oh, my prophetic soul!’ 
You don’t believe the evidence, then. You never 
did. You always thought there was something they 
didn’t find out.” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Reggie said 
slowly. “That’s the last word now. And it may be 
the last word in the end.” 

“You!” she said, and held out her hand. 

When she was gone, Reggie stood looking at the 
place where she had sat. “God help us,” he said, 
rare words on his lips. And the place he went to was 
Scotland Yard. 

Lomas was occupied with other sublime officials. 
So Superintendent Bell reported. He had also been 
telephoning for Mr. Fortune. Mr. Fortune was 
admitted and found himself before a large red trucu¬ 
lent man who glared. “Hallo, Finch. Is this a 
council of war?” said Mr. Fortune; for at that date 
Mr. Montague Finchampstead was the Public 
Prosecutor. 

“Lomas tells me”—Finchampstead has a bullying 


48 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

manner—“you’ve formed an opinion on the evidence 
in the Carwell case.” 

“Then he knows more than I do. The evidence 
was all right—what there was of it.” 

“The chain is complete,” Finchampstead an¬ 
nounced. 

“Yes. Yes, If you don’t pull it hard.” 

“Well, no one did pull it.” 

“That’s what I’m pointing out, Finch,” said 
Reggie sweetly. “Why are you so cross?” 

“The trouble is, Fortune, the Carwell butler’s 
bolted,” Lomas said. 

Reggie walked across the room and took one of 
Lomas’s cigars and lit it, and made himself comfort¬ 
able in his chair. “That’s a new fact,” he said 
softly. 

“Nonsense,” Finchampstead cried. “It’s irrele¬ 
vant. It doesn’t affect the issue. The verdict 
stands.” 

“I noticed you didn’t call the butler at the trial,” 
Reggie murmured. 

“Why the devil should we? He knew nothing.” 

“Yet he bolts.” 

Lomas smiled. “The unfortunate thing is, 
Fortune, he bolted before the trial was over. At the 
end of the second day the local police were told that 
he had vanished. The news was passed on to Finch¬ 
ampstead. But the defence was not informed. 
And it didn’t come out at the trial.” 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 49 

“Well, well. I thought you were riding rather 
hard, Finch. You were.” 

“Rubbish. The case was perfectly clear. The 
disappearance of the butler doesn’t affect it—if he 
has disappeared. The fellow may very well have 
gone off on some affair of his own, and turn up 
again in a day or two. And if he doesn’t, it’s noth¬ 
ing to the purpose. The butler was known to have a 
kindness for Mark Car well. If we never hear of 
him again I shall conclude that he had a hand in the 
murder, and when he saw the case was going against 
Mark thought he had better vanish.” 

“Theory number two,” Reggie murmured. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Your first was that the butler knew nothing. 
Your second is that he knows too much. Better 
choose which leg you’ll stand on in the Court of 
Appeal.” 

Finchampstead glared. 

“In the meantime, Finch, we’ll try to find the 
butler for you,” said Lomas cheerfully. 

“And I think I’ll have a look at the evidence,” 
Reggie murmured. 

“There is no flaw in the evidence,” Finchamp¬ 
stead boomed. 

“Well, not till you look at it.” 

Finchampstead with some explosions of disgust 
removed himself. 

“Zeal, all zeal,” said Reggie sadly.. “Well-meaning 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


50 

man. Only one idea at a time. And sometimes a 
wrong un.” 

“He’s a lawyer by nature,” Lomas apologized. 
“You always rub him up the wrong way. He don’t 
like the scientific mind. What?” Bell had come 
in to give him a visiting card. He read out, “Sir 
Brian Carwell.” He looked at Reggie. “Now 
which side is he on?” 

“One moment. Who exactly is he? Some sort 
of remote cousin?” 

“Yes. He comes of a younger branch. People 
say the brains of the Carwells went to them. His 
father was the engineer, old Ralph Carwell. This 
man’s an engineering contractor. He made his pile 
over South American railways.” 

“You wouldn’t say he was passionately interested 
in the late Lord Carwell or Cousin Mark.” 

There came in a lean man with an air of decision 
and authority, but older than his resilient vigour 
suggested, for his hair was much sprinkled with 
grey, and in his brown face, about the eyes and 
mouth, the wrinkles were many. He was exact with 
the formalities of introduction and greeting, but 
much at his ease, and then, “I had better explain who 
I am, Mr. Lomas.” 

“Oh, we’ve heard of Sir Brian Carwell.” 

“Thanks. But I dare say you don’t know my 
private affairs. I’m some sort of fifteenth cousin of 
these two unfortunate young fellows. And just now 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 51 

I happen to be the acting head of the family. I’m 
not the next heir, of course. That’s old Canon 
Carwell. But I was on the spot when this thing 
happened. After his arrest Mark asked me to take 
charge for him, and the Canon wished me to act. 
That’s my position. Well, I carried on to keep 
things as they were at the Hall and on the estate. 
Several of the servants want to quit, of course, but 
they haven’t gone yet. The butler was a special 
case. He told me he had given Hugo notice some 
time before. I could find no record, but it was 
possible enough, and as he only wanted to retire and 
settle down in the neighbourhood, I made no diffi¬ 
culty. So he set himself up in lodgings in the village. 
He was looking about for a house, he told me. I 
suppose he had done pretty well. He had been in 
service at the Hall thirty or forty years, poor devil. 
What a life! He knew Hugo and Mark much 
better than I do, had known ’em all their young 
lives. He knew all the family affairs inside and out. 
One night the people where he was lodging went 
round to the police to say he’d gone out and not 
come back. He hasn’t come back yet.” 

“And what do you conclude, Sir Brian?” 

“I’ll be damned if I know what I conclude. That’s 
your business, isn’t it?” 

“Not without some facts,” said Lomas. “When 
did he leave the Hall?” 

“After Mark was arrested. May 13. And he 


52 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

disappeared on the evening of the second day of the 
trial.” 

“That would be when it looked certain that Mark 
would be found guilty. Why did he wait till then?” 

Sir Brian laughed. “If I knew that, I suppose 
I shouldn’t be here. I’m asking you to find him.” 

“Quite, quite,” Lomas agreed. “The local police 
knew of his disappearance at once?” 

“I said so. I wish I had known as soon. The 
police didn’t bother to mention it at the trial. It 
might have made some difference to the verdict, Mr. 
Lomas.” 

“That’s matter of opinion, of course,” said Lomas. 
“I wasn’t in England myself. I needn’t tell you 
that it’s open to the defence to appeal against the 
conviction.” 

“Is it?” Sir Brian’s shadowed eyes grew 
smaller. “You don’t know Mark, Mr. Lomas. If 1 
were to tell you Mark refuses to make an appeal on 
this ground because it would be putting the murder 
on the butler, what would you say?” 

“Good Gad!” was what Lomas did say. He lay 
back and put up his eyeglass and looked from Sir 
Brian to Reggie and back again. “You mean Mark 
admits he is guilty?” 

“Guilty be damned,” said Sir Brian. “No, sir, 
I mean Mark liked the wretched fellow and won’t 
hear of anything against him. Mark’s a fool. But 
that’s not a reason for hanging him. I say you got 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 53 

your conviction by suppressing evidence. It’s up to 
you to review the case.” 

“Still, Lord Carwell was killed,” said Lomas 
gently, “and somebody killed him. Who was 
it?” 

“Not Mark. He hasn’t got it in him. I suppose 
he never hit a fellow who couldn’t hit back in his 
life.” 

“But surely,” Lomas purred, “if there was a 
quarrel, Lord Carwell might-” 

“Hugo was a weed,” Sir Brian pronounced. 
“Mark never touched him, my friend.” 

“Yes, yes, very natural you should think so,” 
Lomas shifted his papers. “Of course you won’t 
expect me to say anything, Sir Brian. And what 
exactly is it you want me to do?” 

Sir Brian laughed. “My dear sir, it’s not for me 
to tell you your duty. I put it to you that a man has 
disappeared, and that his disappearance makes hay 
of the case on which the Crown convicted a cousin 
of mine of murder. What you do about it is your 
affair.” 

“You may rely upon it, Sir Brian,” said Lomas in 
his most official manner, “the affair will be thor¬ 
oughly investigated.” 

“I expected no less, Mr. Lomas,” And Sir Brian 
ceremoniously but briskly took his leave. 

After which, “Good Gad!” said Lomas again, and 
stared at Reggie Fortune. 



MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


54 

“Nice restful companion, isn’t he? Yes. The 
sort of fellow that has made Old England great.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind him. He could be dealt with. 
But he’s right, confound him. The case is a most 
unholy mess.” 

“Well, well,” said Reggie placidly. “You must 
rub it out, dear, and do it again.” 

“If everybody had tried to muddle it they couldn’t 
have done worse.” 

Reggie stared at him. “Yes. Yes, you have 
your moments, Lomas,” he said. 

“Suppose the butler did the murder. Why in the 
world should he wait to run away till Mark was 
certain to be found guilty?” 

“And suppose he didn’t, why did he run away at 
all? You can make up quite a lot of riddles in this 
business. Why should anyone but Mark do it? 
Why is Mark so mighty tender of the butler’s repu¬ 
tation? Why is anything?” 

“Yes, it’s all crazy—except Sir Brian. He’s rea¬ 
sonable enough, confound him.” 

“Yes. Yes, these rational men are a nuisance to 
the police. Well, well, begin again at the begin¬ 
ning.” 

“I wish I knew where it did begin.” 

“My dear fellow! Are we down-hearted? I’ll 
have a look at the medical evidence. You go over 
Carwell Hall and the butler’s digs with a small tooth 
comb.” 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 55 

But the first thing which Mr. Fortune did was to 
send a note to Miss Amber: 

My dear Child,— 

Mark can appeal. The ground for it is the 
disappearance of the Carwell butler—and a good 
ground. 

But he must appeal. Tell Miss Nest. 

R. F. 

Two days afterwards he went again to Scotland 
Yard summoned to a conference of the powers. The 
public prosecutor’s large and florid face had no wel¬ 
come for him. “Any more new facts, Finch?” he 
said cheerfully. 

“Mark Carwell has entered an appeal,” Mr. Finch- 
ampstead boomed. “On the ground of the butler’s 
disappearance.” 

“Fancy that!” Reggie murmured, and lit a cigar. 
“Sir Brian doesn’t seem to have been very well in¬ 
formed, Lomas.” 

“The boy’s come to his senses, I suppose. But we 
haven’t found the butler. He left no papers behind 
him. All he did leave was his clothes and about a 
hundred pounds in small notes.” 

“So he didn’t take his ready money. That’s 
interesting.” 

“Well, not all of it. He left another hundred or 
so in the savings bank, and some small investments 
in building societies and so forth—a matter of five 


56 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

hundred. Either he didn’t mean to vanish, or he 
was in the deuce of a hurry to go.” 

“Yes. Yes, there’s anodier little point. Five or 
six hundred isn’t much to retire on. Why was he in 
such a hurry to retire ?” 

“He may have had more than we can trace, of 
course. He may have gone off with some Carwell 
property. Rut there is no evidence of anything 
being stolen.” 

“The plain fact is,” Finchampstead boomed, “you 
have found nothing but that he’s gone. We knew 
that before.” 

“And it’s a pity you kept it dark,” said Lomas 
acidly. “You wouldn’t have had an appeal to fight.” 

“The case against Mark Carwell is intrinsically as 
strong as ever,” Finchampstead pronounced. “There 
is no reason whatever to suspect the butler, he had 
no motive for murder, he gained nothing by it, his 
disappearance is most naturally accounted for by an 
accident.” 

“Yes, you’ll have to say all that in the Court of 
Appeal. I don’t think it will cut much ice.” 

“I am free to admit that his disappearance is an 
awkward complication in the case,” Finchampstead’s 
oratory rolled on. “But surely, Lomas, you have 
formed some theory in explanation?” 

Lomas shook his head. 

“We’ve had too much theory, Finch,” said Reggie 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 57 

cheerfully. “Let’s try some facts. I want the body 
exhumed.” 

The eyes of Mr. Finchampstead goggled. His 
large jaw fell. 

“Good Gad, you don’t doubt he’s dead?” Lomas 
cried. 

“Oh, he’ll be dead all right. I want to know how 
he died.” 

“Are you serious?” Finchampstead mourned. 
“Really, Fortune, this is not a matter for frivolity. 
The poor fellow was found dead with one side of his 
head beaten in. There can be no dispute how he 
died. I presume you have taken the trouble to read 
the medical evidence.” 

“I have. That’s what worries me. I’ve seen the 
doctors you called. Dear old things.” 

“Very sound men. And of the highest standing,” 
Finchampstead rebuked him. 

“As you say. They know a fractured skull when 
they see it. They would see everything they looked 
for. But they didn’t look for what they didn’t see.” 

“May I ask what you mean?” 

“Any other cause of death.” 

“The cause was perfectly plain. There was noth¬ 
ing else to look for.” 

“Yes. Yes,” Reggie lay back and blew smoke. 
“That’s the sort of reasoning that got you this ver¬ 
dict. Look here, Finch. That smashed head would 


58 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

have killed him all right, but it shouldn’t have killed 
him so quick. He ought to have lingered uncon¬ 
scious a long while. And he had been dead hours 
when they found him. We have to begin again 
from the beginning. I want an order for exhurna^ 
tion.” 

“Better ask for a subpoena for his soul.” 

“That’s rather good, Finch,” Reggie smiled. 
“You’re beginning to take an interest in the case.” 

“If you could take the evidence of the murdered,” 
said Lomas, “a good many convictions for murder 
would look rather queer.” 

Mr. Finchampstead was horrified. “I conceive,” 
he announced with dignity, “that a trial in an Eng¬ 
lish court is a practically perfect means of discover¬ 
ing the truth.” 

Reverently then they watched him go. And when 
he was gone, “He’s a wonderful man,” said Reggie. 
“He really believes that.” 

The next morning saw Mr. Fortune, escorted by 
Superintendent Bell, arrive at Carwell Hall. It 
stands in what Mr. Fortune called a sluggish country, 
a country of large rolling fields and slow rivers. The 
air was heavy and blurred all colour and form. Mr. 
Fortune arrived at Carwell Hall feeling as if he had 
eaten too much, a sensation rare in him, which he 
resented. He was hardly propitiated by the house, 
though others have rejoiced in it. It was built under 
the Tudors out of the spoils and, they say, with the 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 59 

stones of an abbey. Though some eighteenth- 
century ruffian played tricks with it, its mellow walls 
still speak of an older, more venturous world. It is 
a place of studied charm, gracious and smiling, but 
in its elaboration of form and ornament offering a 
thousand things to look at, denies itself as a whole, 
evasive and strange. 

Reggie got out of the car and stood back to survey 

it. 

“Something of everything, isn’t it, Bell? Like a 
Shakespeare play. Just the place to have a murder 
in one room with a children’s party in the next, and 
a nice girl making love on the stairs, and father 
going mad in the attics.” 

“I rather like Shakespeare myself, sir,” said 
Superintendent Bell. 

“You’re so tolerant,” said Reggie, and went in. 

A new butler said that Sir Brian was expecting 
them. Sir Brian was brusquely civil. He was very 
glad to find that the case was being reopened. The 
whole place was at their orders. Anything he could 
do- 

“I thought I might just look round,” Reggie said. 
“We are rather after the fair, though.” He did not 
think it necessary to tell Sir Brian that Lord Car- 
well’s body would be dug up that night. 

They were taken across a hall with a noble roof of 
hammer beams to the place of the murder. The 
library was panelled in oak, which at a man’s height 



6 o 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


from the ground flowered into carving. The ceiling 
was moulded into a hundred coats of arms, each 
blazoned with its right device, and the glow and 
colour of them, scarlet and bright blue and gold, 
filled the room. Black presses with vast locks stood 
here and there. A stool was on either side of the 
great open hearth. By the massive table a stern 
fifteenth-century chair was set. 

Bell gazed about him and breathed heavily. 
“Splendid room, sir,” he said. “Quite palatial.” 

“But it’s not what I’d want after dinner myself,” 
Reggie murmured. 

“I’ve no use for the place,” said Sir Brian. “But 
it suited Hugo. He would never have a thing 
changed. He was really a survival. Poor old 
Hugo.” 

“He was sitting here ?” Reggie touched the chair. 

“So they tell me. I didn’t see him till some time 
after the girl found him. You’d better hear what 
she has to say.” 

A frightened and agitated housemaid testified that 
his lordship had been sitting in that chair bent over 
the table and his head rested on it, and the left side 
of his head was all smashed, and on the table was a 
pool of his blood. She would never forget it, never. 
She became aware of Reggie’s deepening frown. 
“That’s the truth, sir,” she cried, “so help me God, 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 61 

“I know, I know,” said Reggie. “No blood any¬ 
where else? No other marks in the room?” 

There hadn’t been anything. She had cleaned the 
room herself. And it had been awful. She hadn’t 
slept a night since. And so on till she was got rid of. 

“Well?” said Sir Brian. “What’s the expert 
make of her?” 

Reggie was looking at the table and fingering it. 
He looked up suddenly. “Oh, she’s telling the 
truth,” he said. “And that’s that.” 

The lunch bell was ringing. Sir Brian hoped they 
would stay at the Hall. They did stay to lunch and 
talked South America, of which Sir Brian’s knowl¬ 
edge was extensive and peculiar. After lunch they 
smoked on the terrace and contemplated through the 
haze the Carwell acres. “Yes, it’s all Carwell land 
as far as you see—if you could see anything,”* 
Sir Brian laughed. “And nothing to see at that. 
Flat arable. I couldn’t live in the place. I never 
feel awake here. But the family’s been on the 
ground four hundred years. They didn’t own the 
estate. The estate owned them. Well, I suppose 
one life’s as good as another if you like it. This 
isn’t mine. Watching Englishmen grow wheat! 
My God! That just suited Hugo. Poor old Hugo!” 

“Had the butler anything against him, sir?” Bell 
ventured. 

“I can’t find it. The butler was just a butler. I 


62 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


never saw a man more so. And Hugo, well, he 
didn’t know servants existed unless they didn’t 
answer the bell. But he was a queer fellow. No 
notion of anybody having rights against him. He 
wouldn’t let you get near him. I’ve seen that make 
quiet men mad.” 

“Meaning anyone in particular, sir?” Bell said. 

“Oh Lord, no. Speaking generally.” He looked 
at Bell with a shrewd smile. “Haven’t you found 
that in your job?” And Bell laughed. “Yes, I’m 
afraid I don’t help you much. Are you going to 
help Mark? Where is the butler?” 

“Yes. Yes, we are rather wasting time, aren’t 
we?” Reggie stretched himself. “It’s too soothing, 
Sir Brian. Can we walk across the park? I hate 
exercise, but man must live.” 

“I don’t think anyone would have to murder me 
if I stayed here long,” Sir Brian started up. “I’ll 
show you the way. We can send your car round to 
the village. 

Over immemorial turf they went their warm way. 
A herd of deer looked at them critically, and con¬ 
cluded they were of no importance. “Pretty crea¬ 
tures,” said Superintendent Bell. 

“I’d as soon keep white mice,” said Sir Brian, 
and discoursed of the wilder deer of other lands till 
he discovered that Reggie was left behind. 

Reggie was wandering off towards a little building 
away in a hollow among trees. It was low, it was of 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 63 

unhewn stone bonded with lines of red tile or brick, 
only a little above the moss-grown roof rose a thin 
square tower. The tiny rounded windows showed 
walls of great thickness and over its one door was a 
mighty round arch, much wrought. 

“Does the old place take your fancy?” Sir Brian 
said. 

“How did that get here?” said Reggie. 

“Well, you’ve got me on my blind side,” Sir 
Brian confessed. “We call it the old church. I 
dare say it’s as old as the Hall.” 

“The Hall’s a baby to it,” said Reggie angrily. 
“The porch is Norman. There’s Saxon work in 
that tower. And that tile is Roman.” 

Sir Brian laughed. “What about the Greeks and 
the Hebrews? Give them a look in.” Reggie was 
not pleased with him. “Sorry, afraid these things 
don’t mean much to me. I don’t know how it 
began.” 

“It may have been a shrine or a chapel over some 
sacred place.” 

“Haven’t a notion. They say it used to be the 
village church. One of my revered ancestors 
stopped the right of way—didn’t like the people dis¬ 
turbing his poultry, I suppose—and built ’em a new 
church outside the park.” 

“Priceless,” Reggie murmured. 

“What, the place or my ancestors ?” 

“Well, both, don’t you think?” 


64 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

For the rest of the way Sir Brian told strange 
stories of the past of the family of Carwell. 

“He’s a good talker, sir,” said Superintendent 
Bell, when they had left him at the park gate and 
were in their car. “Very pleasant company. But 
you’ve something on your mind.” 

“The chair,” Reggie mumbled. “Why was the 
man in his chair?” 

“Lord Carwell, sir?” Bell struggled to adjust his 
mind. “Well, he was. That girl was telling the 
truth. 

“I know, I know. That’s the difficulty. You 
smash the side of a man’s head in. He won’t sit 
down to think about it.” 

“Perhaps he was sitting when he was hit.” 

“Then he’d be knocked over just the same.” 

“I suppose the murderer might have picked him 

up.” 

“He might. But why? Why?” 

Superintendent Bell sighed heavily. “I judge 
we’ve some way to go, sir. And we don’t seem to 
get any nearer the butler.” 

“Your job,” said Reggie, and again the Superin¬ 
tendent sighed. 

That night through a drizzling rain, lanterns 
moved in the village churchyard. The vault in 
which the Car wells of a hundred and fifty years lie 
crumbling was opened, and out of it a coffin was 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 65 

borne away. One man lingered in the vault holding 
a lantern high. He moved from one coffin to an¬ 
other, and came up again to the clean air and the 
rain. “All present and correct,” he said. “No de¬ 
ception, Bell.” 

Superintendent Bell coughed. Sometimes he 
thinks Mr. Fortune lacking in reverence. 

“Division of labour,” Reggie sank into the cush¬ 
ions of the car and lit a pipe, “the division of labour 
is the great principle of civilization. Perhaps you 
didn’t know that? In the morning I will look at 
the corpse and you will look for the butler.” 

“Well, sir, I don’t care for my job, but I wouldn’t 
have yours for a hundred pounds.” 

“Yet it has a certain interest,” Reggie murmured, 
“for that poor devil with the death sentence on 
him.” 

To their hotel in Southam Reggie Fortune came 
back on the next day rather before lunch time. 
“Finished at the mortuary, sir?” said Bell. “I 
thought you looked happy.” 

“Not happy. Only pleased with myself. A 
snare, Bell, a snare. Have you found the butler?” 

Bell shook his head. “It’s like a fairy tale, sir. 
He went out on that evening, walked down the 
village street, and that’s the last of him they know. 
He might have gone to the station, he might have 
gone on the Southam motor-bus. They can’t swear 


66 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


he didn’t, but nobody saw him. They’ve searched 
the whole country-side and dragged the river. If 
you’ll tell me what to do next, I’ll be glad.” 

“Sir Brian’s been asking for me, they say,” said 
Reggie. “I think we’ll go and call on Sir Brian.” 

They took sandwiches and their motor to Carwell 
Hall. The new butler told them Sir Brian had 
driven into Southam and was not yet back. “Oh, 
we’ve crossed him, I suppose,” Reggie said. “We 
might stroll in the park till he’s back. Ah, can we 
get into the old church?” 

The butler really couldn’t say, and remarked that 
he was new to the place. 

“Oh, it’s no matter.” Reggie took Bell’s arm and 
strolled away. 

They wandered down to the little old church. 
“Makes you feel melancholy, sir, don’t it?” Bell 
said. “Desolate, as you might say. As if people 
had got tired of believing in God.” 

Reggie looked at him a moment and went into the 
porch and tried the worm-eaten oak door. “We 
might have a look at the place,” he said, and took 
out of his pocket a flat case like a housewife. 

“Good Lord, sir, I wouldn’t do that,” Bell re¬ 
coiled. “I mean to say—it’s a church after all.” 

But Reggie was already picking the old lock. The 
door yielded and he went in. A dank and musty 
smell met them. The church was all but empty. 
Dim light fell on a shattered rood screen and stalls, 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 67 

and a bare stone altar. A tomb bore two cadaver¬ 
ous effigies. Reggie moved hither and thither prying 
into every corner, and came at last to a broken flight 
of stairs. “Oh, there’s a crypt, is there,” he mut¬ 
tered, and went down. “Hallo! Come on, Bell.” 

Superintendent Bell, following reluctantly, found 
him struggling with pieces of timber, relics of stall 
and bench, which held a door closed. “Give me a 
hand, man.” 

“I don’t like it, sir, and that’s the truth.” 

“Nor do I,” Reggie panted, “not a bit,” and 
dragged the last piece away and pulled the doop open. 
He took out a torch and flashed the light on. They 
looked into a place supported on low round arches. 
The beam of the torch moved from coffin to mould¬ 
ering coffin. 

“Good God,” Bell gasped, and gripped Reggie’s 

arm. 

Reggie drew him in. They came to the body of 
a man which had no coffin. It lay upon its face. 
Reggie went over it, touching gently the back of the 
neck. “I thought so,” he muttered, and turned the 
body over. Bell gave a stifled cry. 

“Quite so, quite-” he sprang up and made a 

dash for the door. It was slammed in his face. 
He flung himself against it, and it yielded a little but 
held. A dull creaking and groaning told that the 
timbers were being set again in place. Together 
they charged the door and were beaten back. 



68 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“And that’s that, Bell,” said Reggie. He flashed 
his light round the crypt, and it fell again on the 
corpse. “You and me and the butler.” 

Bell’s hand felt for him. “Mr. Fortune—Mr. 
Fortune—was he dead when he came here?” 

“Oh Lord, yes. Sir Brian’s quite a humane man. 
But business is business.” 

“Sir Brian?” Bell gasped. 

“My dear chap,” said Reggie irritably, “don’t 
make conversation.” He turned his torch on the 
grey oak of the door. ... 

It was late in that grim afternoon before they had 
cut and kicked a hole in it, and Reggie’s hand came 
through and felt for the timbers which held it closed. 
Twilight was falling when, dirty and reeking, they 
broke out of the church and made for the Hall. 

Sir Brian—the new butler could not conceal his 
surprise at seeing them—Sir Brian had gone out in 
the big car. But the butler feared there must be 
some mistake. He understood that Sir Brian had 
seen the gentlemen and was to take them with him. 
Sir Brian had sent the gentlemen’s car back to 
Southam. Sir Brian- 

“Where’s your telephone?” said Reggie. 

The butler was afraid the telephone was out of 
order. He had been trying to get- 

Reggie went to the receiver. There was no an¬ 
swer. Still listening, he looked at the connexions. 
A couple of inches of wire were cut out. 




THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 69 

Half an hour later two breathless men arrived at 
the village post office and shut themselves into the 
telephone call-box. 

On the next day Lomas called at Mr. Fortune’s 
house in Wimpole Street and was told that Mr. For¬ 
tune was in his bath. A parlourmaid with downcast 
eyes announced to him a few minutes later that if he 
would go up Mr. Fortune would be very glad to 
see him. 

“Pardon me,” said the pink cherubic face from 
the water, “I am not clean. I think I shall never 
be clean again.” 

“You look like a prawn,” said Lomas. 

“That’s your unscientific mind. Have you got 
him?” 

Lomas shook his head. “He has been seen in ten 
places at once. They have arrested a blameless 
bookmaker at Hull and an Irish cattle-dealer at 
Birkenhead. As usual. But we ought to have him 
in time.” 

“My fault entirely. He is an able fellow. I 
have underrated these business men, Lomas. My 
error. Occasionally one has a head. He has.” 

“These madmen often have.” 

Reggie wallowed in the water. “Mad? He’s as 
sane as I am. He’s been badly educated, that’s all. 
That’s the worst of business men. They’re so 
ignorant. Just look at it. He killed Hugo by a 
knife thrust in the vertebrae at the base of the skull. 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


70 

It’s a South American fashion, probably indigenous. 
When I found that wound in the body I was sure of 
the murderer. I had a notion before from the way 
he spoke about Hugo and the estate. Probably 
Hugo was bent over the table and the blow was 
struck without his knowledge. He would be dead in 
a moment. But Sir Brian saw that wouldn’t do. 
Too uncommon a murder in Engand. So he 
smashed in the skull to make it look like an ordinary 
crime of violence. Thus ignorance is bliss. He 
never thought the death wasn’t the right kind of 
death for that. Also it didn’t occur to him that a 
man who is hit on the head hard is knocked down. 
He don’t lay his head on the table to be hammered 
same like Hugo. I don’t fancy Brian meant Mark 
to be hanged. Possibly he was going to manufac¬ 
ture evidence of burglary when he was interrupted 
by the butler. Anyhow the butler knew too much 
and had to be bought off. But I suppose the butler 
wouldn’t stand Mark being hanged. When he found 
the trial was going dead against Mark he threatened. 
So he had to be killed too. Say by appointment in 
the park. Same injury in his body—a stab through 
the cervical vertebrae. And the corpse was neatly 
disposed of in the crypt.” 

“What in the world put you on to the 
crypt ?” 

“Well, Sir Brian was so anxious not to be inter¬ 
ested in the place. And the place was so mighty 


THE PRESIDENT OF SAN JACINTO 71 

convenient. And the butler had to be somewhere. 
Pure reasoning, Lomas, old thing. This is a very 
rational case all through.” 

“Rational! Will you tell me why Sir Brian came 
to stir us up about the butler and insisted Mark was 
innocent ?” 

“I told you he was an able man. He saw it 
would have looked very fishy if he didn’t. Acting 
head of the family—he had to act. And also I fancy 
he liked Mark. If he could get the boy off, he would 
rather do it than not. And who could suspect the 
worthy fellow who was so straight and decent ? All 
very rational.” 

“Very,” said Lomas. “Especially the first murder. 
Why do you suppose he wanted to kill Hugo ?” 

“Well, you’d better look at his papers. He talked 
about Hugo as if he had a grudge against the way 
Hugo ran the estate. I wonder if he wanted to 
develop it—try for minerals perhaps—it’s on the 
edge of the South Midland coal-field—and Hugo 
wouldn’t have it.” 

“Good Gad!” Lomas said. “You are an inge¬ 
nious fellow, Fortune. He had proposed to Hugo to 
try for coal, and Hugo turned it down.” 

Reggie emerged from the bath. “There you 
have it. He knew if Hugo was out of the way he 
could do what he wanted. If Mark or the old parson 
had the place, he could manage them. Very rational 
crime.” 


72 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“Rational! Murder your cousin to make a coal 
mine!” 

“Business men and business methods. Run away 
and catch him, Lomas, and hang him to encourage 
the others.” 

But in fact Lomas did not catch him. Some years 
afterwards Mrs. Fortune found her husband on the 
veranda of an hotel in Italy staring at a Spanish 
paper. “Don’t dream, child,” she said. “Run and 
dress.” 

“I’m seeing ghosts, Joan,” said Mr. Fortune. 

She looked over his shoulder. “Who is San 
Jacinto?” 

“The last new South American republic. Here’s 
His Excellency the President. Ne Brian Carwell. 
Observe the smile.” 


CASE III 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


M R. REGINALD FORTUNE came into 
Superintendent Bell’s room at Scotland 
Yard. “That was chocolate cream,” he 
said placidly. “You’d better arrest the aunt.” 

The superintendent took up his telephone receiver 
and spoke into it fervently. You remember the 
unpleasant affair of the aunt and her niece’s child. 

“ 'Oh, fat white woman that nobody loves,’ ” Mr. 
Fortune murmured. “Well, well. She’s not whole¬ 
some, you know. Some little error in the ductless 
glands.” 

“She’s for it,” said Superintendent Bell with grim 
satisfaction. “That’s a wicked woman, Mr. For¬ 
tune, and as clever as sin.” 

“Yes, quite unhealthy. A dull case, Bell.” He 
yawned and wandered about the room and came to a 
stand by the desk. “What are these curios?” He 
pointed to a skeleton key and a pad of cotton-wool. 

“The evidence in that young doctor’s case, the 
Bloomsbury diamond burglary. Not worth keeping, 
I suppose. That was a bad business though. I was 
73 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


74 

sorry for the lad. But it was a straight case. Did 
you read it, sir? Young fellow making a start, hard 
fight for it, on his beam ends, gets to know a man 
with a lot of valuable stuff in his rooms—and steals 
it. An impudent robbery too—but that’s the usual 
way when a decent fellow goes wrong, he loses his 
head. Lead us not into temptation. That’s the 
moral of Dr. Wilton’s case. He’s only thirty, he’s a 
clever fellow, he ought to have done well, he’s ruined 
himself—and if he'd had a hundred pounds in the 
bank he’d have run straight enough.” 

“A lot of crime is a natural product.” Mr. For¬ 
tune repeated a favourite maxim of his. “I didn’t 
read it, Bell. How did it go ?” He sat down and 
lit a cigar. 

“The trial was in this morning’s papers, sir. Only 
a small affair. Dr. Horace Wilton came out of the 
army with a gratuity and a little money of his own. 
He set up as a specialist. You know the usual thing. 
His plate up with three or four others on a Harley 
Street house where he had a little consulting-room to 
himself. He lived in a Bloomsbury flat. Well, the 
patients didn’t come. He wasn’t known, he had no 
friends, and his money began to run out.” 

“Poor devil,” Reggie nodded. 

“A Dutch diamond merchant called Witt came to 
live in the flats. Wilton got to know him, pre¬ 
scribed for a cold or something. Witt took to the 
doctor, made friends, heard about his troubles, of- 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


75 


fered to get him a berth in the Dutch colonies, gave 
him two or three rough diamonds—a delicate way of 
giving him money, I suppose. Then one morning 
the valet—service flats they are—coming into Witt’s 
rooms found him heavily asleep. He’d been chloro¬ 
formed. There was that pad on his pillow.” 

Reggie took up the box in which the cotton-wool 
and the skeleton key lay. 

“Don’t shake it,” said the superintendent. “Do 
you see those scraps of tobacco ? That’s important. 
The bureau in which Witt kept the diamonds he had 
with him had been forced open and the diamonds 
were gone. Witt sent for the police. Now you see 
that tobacco on the cotton-wool. The inspector 
spotted that. The cotton-wool must have been 
handled by a man who smoked that tobacco. Most 
likely carried it in the same pocket. Unusual stuff, 
isn’t it? Well, the inspector remarked on that to 
Witt. Witt was horrified. You see it’s South 
African tobacco. And he knew Wilton used the 
stuff. There was some spilt in the room, too.” 

“Have you got that?” said Reggie. 

“No, I don’t think it was produced. But our man 
saw it, and he’s reliable. Then a Dutch journalist 
dropped in. He was just over in England. He’d 
called on Witt late the night before and couldn’t 
make him hear. That surprised him because as he 
came up he’d seen some one coming out of Witt’s 
rooms, some one who went into Wilton’s. That was 


76 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

enough to act on. Wilton was arrested and his flat 
was searched. Tucked away in the window seat 
they found the diamonds and that skeleton key. He 
stood his trial yesterday, he made no defence but to 
swear that he knew nothing about it. The evidence 
was clear. Witt—he must be a soft-hearted old 
fellow—Witt tried to let him down as gently as he 
could and asked the judge to go easy with him. Old 
Borrowdale gave him five years. A stiff sentence, 
but the case itself would break the man’s career, poor 
chap. A bad business, sir, isn’t it? Impudent, un¬ 
grateful piece of thieving—but he might have been 
honest enough if he could have made a living at his 
job.” 

Mr. Fortune did not answer. He was looking at 
the key. He set it down, took up a magnifying glass, 
carried the box to the light and frowned over the 
cotton-wool. 

“What’s the matter with it, sir?” 

“The key,” Mr. Fortune mumbled, still studying 
the cotton-wool. “Why was the key made in Ger¬ 
many? Why does Dr. Horace Wilton of Harley 
Street and Bloomsbury use a skeleton key that was 
made in Solingen?” 

“Well, sir, you can’t tell how a man comes by that 
sort of stuff. It goes about from hand to hand, don’t 
it?” 

“Yes. Whose hand?” said Reggie. “And why 
does your local expert swear this is South African 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 77 

tobacco? There is a likeness. But this is that aw¬ 
ful stuff they sell in Germany and call Rauch-tabak.” 

Bell was startled. “That’s awkward, sir. Ger¬ 
man too, eh ?” 

“Well, you can buy Solingen goods outside Ger¬ 
many. And German tobacco, too. Say in Holland.” 
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, sir ?” 

“Oh, I think the tobacco was a little error. I 
think the tobacco ought not to have been there. But 
it was rather unlucky for Dr. Wilton your bright 
expert took it for his brand.” 

The superintendent looked uncomfortable. “Yes, 
sir, that’s the sort of thing we don’t want to happen. 
But after all the case didn’t turn on the tobacco. 
There was the man who swore he saw Wilton leaving 
Witt’s flat and the finding of the diamonds in Wil¬ 
ton’s room. Without the tobacco the evidence was 
clear.” 

“I know. I said the tobacco was superfluous. 
That’s why it interests me. Superfluous, not to say 
awkward. We know Wilton don’t use Rauch-tabak. 
Yet there is Rauch-tabak on the chloroformed pad. 
Which suggests that some one else was on the job. 
Some fellow with a taste for German flavours. The 
sort of fellow who’d use a German key.” 

“There’s not a sign of Wilton’s having an ac¬ 
complice,” said Bell heavily. “But of course it’s 
possible.” 

Mr. Fortune looked at him with affection. “Dear 


78 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

Bell/’ he said, “you must find the world very won¬ 
derful. No, I wouldn’t look for an accomplice. 
But I think you might look for the diamond mer¬ 
chant and the journalist. I should like to ask them 
who smokes Rauch-tabak.” 

“There must be an investigation,” Bell sighed. 
“I see that, sir. But I can’t see that it will do the 
poor fellow any good. And it’s bad for the depart¬ 
ment.” 

Reggie smiled upon him. “Historic picture of an 
official struggling with his humanity,” he said. 
“Poor old Bell!” 

At the end of that week Mr. Fortune was sum¬ 
moned to Scotland Yard. He found the chief of the 
Criminal Investigation Department in conference 
with Eddis, a man of law from the Home Office. 
“Hallo! Life is real, life is earnest, isn’t it, Lomas?” 
he smiled. 

The Hon. Sidney Lomas put up an eyeglass and 
scowled at him. “You know, you’re not a man of 
science, Fortune. You’re an agitator. You ought 
to be bound over to keep the peace.” 

“I should call him a departmental nuisance,” said 
Eddis gloomily. 

“In returnin’ thanks (one of your larger cigars 
would do me no harm, Lomas) I would only ask, 
where does it hurt you?” 

“The Wilton case was a very satisfactory case 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


79 

till you meddled/’ said Eddis. “Also it was a chose 
jugee” 

“And now it’s unjudged? How good for you!” 
Reggie chuckled. “How stimulating!” 

“Now,” said Lomas severely, “it’s insane. It’s 
a nightmare.” 

“Yes. Yes, I dare say that’s what Dr. Wilton 
thinks,” said Reggie gravely. “Well, how far have 
you got?” 

“You were right about the tobacco, confound you. 
And the key. Both of German birth. And will you 
kindly tell me what that means ?” 

“My honourable friends, question,” said Reggie, 
“should be addressed to Mynheer Witt or Mynheer 
Gerard. You know, this is like Alice in Wonderland. 
Sentence first, trial afterwards. Why didn’t you 
look into the case before you tried it? Then you 
could have asked Witt and Gerard these little ques¬ 
tions when you had them in the box. And very 
interesting too.” 

“We can’t ask them now, at any rate. They’ve 
vanished. Witt left his flat on the day of the trial. 
Gerard left his hotel the same night. Both said they 
were going back to Amsterdam. And here’s the 
Dutch police information. ‘Your telegram of the 
27th not understood. No men as described known 
in Amsterdam. Cannot trace arrivals.’ ” 

“Well, well,” said Reggie. “Our active and 


8o 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


intelligent police force. The case has interest, 
hasn’t it, Lomas, old thing?” 

“What is it you want to suggest, Fortune?” Eddis 
looked at him keenly. 

“I want to point out the evanescence of the evi¬ 
dence—the extraordinary evanescence of the evi¬ 
dence.” 

“That’s agreed,” Eddis nodded “The wjhole 
thing is unsatisfactory. The tobacco, so far as it is 
evidence, turns out to be in favour of the prisoner. 
The only important witnesses for the prosecution 
disappear after the trial, leaving suspicion of their 
status. But there remains the fact that the dia¬ 
monds were found in the prisoner’s room.” 

“Oh yes, some one put ’em there,” Reggie smiled. 

“Let’s have it clear, Fortune,” said the man of 
law. “Your suggestion is that the whole case 
against Wilton was manufactured by these men who 
have disappeared?” 

“That is the provisional hypothesis. Because 
nothing else covers the facts. There were German 
materials used, and Wilton has nothing to do with 
Germany. The diamond merchant came to the flats 
where Wilton was already living and sought Wilton’s 
acquaintance. The diamond merchant’s friend 
popped up just in the nick of time to give indispens¬ 
able evidence. And the moment Wilton is safe in 
penal servitude the pair of them vanish, and the only 
thing we can find out about them is that they aren’t 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


81 


what they pretended to be. Well, the one hypo¬ 
thesis which fits all these facts is that these two 
fellows wanted to put Dr. Horace Wilton away. 
Any objection to that, Eddis?” 

“There’s only one objection—why? Your theory 
explains everything that happened, but leaves us 
without any reason why anything happened at all. 
That is, it’s an explanation which makes the case 
more obscure than ever. We can understand why' 
Wilton might have stolen diamonds. Nobody can 
understand why anyone should want to put him in 
prison.” 

“Oh my dear fellow! You’re so legal. What 
you don’t know isn’t knowledge. You don’t know 
why Wilton had to be put out of the way. No more 
do I. But-” 

“No more did Wilton,” said Eddis sharply. “He 
didn’t suspect these fellows. His defence didn’t 
suggest that he had any enemies. He only denied 
all knowledge of the theft, and his counsel argued 
that the real thief had used his rooms to hide the 
diamonds in because he was surprised and scared.” 

“Yes. That was pretty feeble, wasn’t it? These 
lawyers, Eddis, these lawyers! A stodgy tribe.” 

“We do like evidence.” 

“Then why not use it? The man Witt was very 
interesting in the box. He said that in the kindness 
of his heart he had offered this ungrateful young 
doctor a job in the Dutch colonies. Quite a nice 



82 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


long way from England, Eddis. Wilton wouldn’t 
take it. So Wilton had to be provided for other¬ 
wise.” 

Eddis/ lookedj at him thoughtfully. “I agree 
there’s something in that. But why? We know all 
about Wilton. He’s run quite straight till now— 
hospital career, military service, his private practice 
all straightforward and creditable. How should he 
have enemies who stick at nothing to get him out 
of the way? A man in a gang of criminals or 
revolutionaries is sometimes involved in a sham 
crime by the others to punish him, or for fear he 
should betray them. But that can’t be Wilton’s 
case. His life’s all open and ordinary. I suppose 
a man might have private enemies who would use 
such a trick, though I don’t know another case.” 

“Oh Lord, yes,” said Lomas, “there was the 
Buckler affair. I always thought that was the 
motive in the Brendon murder.” 

Eddis frowned. “Well—as you say. But Wil¬ 
ton has no suspicion of a trumped-up case. He; 
doesn’t know he has enemies.” 

“No,” said Reggie. “I rather think Wilton don’t 
know what it is he knows. Suppose he blundered 
on some piece of awkward evidence about Mr. Witt 
or some of Mr. Witt’s friends. He don’t know it’s 
dangerous—but they do.” 

“Men have been murdered in a case like that and 
never knew why they were killed,” said Lomas. 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


83 

“I dare say,” Eddis cried. “It’s all quite pos¬ 
sible. But it’s all in the air. I have nothing that I 
can act upon.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Reggie. “You’re 
so modest.” 

“Perhaps I am,” Eddis shrugged. “But I can’t 
recommend Wilton’s sentence for revision on a 
provisional hypothesis.” 

“Revision be damned,” Reggie cried. “I want 
him free.” 

Eddis stared at him. “But this is fantastic,” he 
protested. 

“Free and cleared. My God, think of the poor 
beggar in a convict gang because these rascals found 
him inconvenient. To reduce his sentence is only 
another wrong. He wants you to give him his life 
back.” 

“It is a hard case,” Eddis sighed. “But what 
can I do? I can’t clear the man’s character. If we 
let him out now, he’s a broken man.” 

“My dear fellow, I’m saying so,” said Reggie 
mildly. “There’s also another point. What is it 
Mr. Witt’s up to that’s so important ? I could bear 
to know that.” 

“That’s not my job,” said Eddis with relief. 
“But you’re still in the air, Fortune. What do you 
want to do? I must take some action.” 

“And that’s very painful to any good official. I 
sympathize with you. Lomas sympathizes with you 


r 


84 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

more, don’t you, Lomas, old thing? And I’m not 
sure that you can do any good.” Mr. Fortune re¬ 
lapsed into cigar smoke and meditation. 

“You’re very helpful,” said Eddis. 

“The fact is, all the evidence against the man 
has gone phut,” said Lomas. “It’s deuced awk¬ 
ward, but we have to face it. Better let him out, 
Eddis.” 

Eddis gasped. “My dear Lomas! I really can’t 
follow you. The only evidence which is proved 
false is the tobacco, which wasn’t crucial. The rest 
is open to suspicion, but we can’t say it’s false, and it 
satisfied the judge and jury. It’s unprecedented to 
reduce the sentence to nothing in such a case.” 

“I’m not thinking of your troubles,” said Lomas. 
“I want to know what Air. Witt has up his sleeve.” 

Reggie came out of his smoke. “Let Wilton out 
—have him watched—and see what Witt and Co. 
get up to. Well, that’s one way. But it’s a 
gamble.” 

“It’s also out of the question,” Eddis announced. 

Reggie turned on him. “What exactly are you 
for, Eddis?” he said. “What is the object of your 
blessed existence?” 

Eddis remarked coldly that it was not necessary to 
lose one’s temper. 

“No. No, I’m not cross with you, but you puzzle 
my simple mind. I thought your job was to see 
justice done. Well, get on with it.” 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 85 

“If you’ll be so very good as to say what you 
suggest,” said Eddis, flushing. 

“You’ll say it’s unprecedented. Well, well. 
This is my little notion. Tell the defence about the 
tobacco and say that that offers a ground for carry¬ 
ing the case to the Court of Appeal. Then let it get 
into the papers that there’s a doubt about the con¬ 
viction, probability of the Wilton case being tried 
again, and so on. Something rather pompous and 
mysterious to set the papers going strong about 
Wilton.” He smiled at Lomas. “I think we could 
wangle that?” 

“I have known it done,” said Lomas. 

“Good heavens, I couldn’t have any dealings with 
the press,” Eddis cried. 

“Bless your sweet innocence. We’ll manage it. 
It don’t matter what the papers say so long as they 
say a lot. That’ll wake up Witt and Co., and we’ll 
see what happens.” 

Eddis looked horrified and bewildered. “I think 
it is clear the defence should be advised of a flaw 
discovered in the evidence in order that the convic¬ 
tion may be reviewed by the Court of Appeal,” he 
said solemnly. “But of course I—I couldn’t sanc¬ 
tion anything more.” 

“That’s all right, my dear fellow,” Lomas smiled. 
“Nobody sanctions these things. Nobody does, 
them. They only happen.” And Eddis was got rid 
of. 


86 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“My country, oh my country!” Reggie groaned. 
“That’s the kind of man that governs England.” 

A day or two later saw Mr. Fortune shivering on 
an April morning outside Princetown prison. He 
announced to the governor that he wanted to get to 
know Dr. Wilton. 

“I don’t think you’ll make much of him,” the 
governor shook his head. “The man seems stupe¬ 
fied. Of course a fellow who has been in a good 
position often is so when he comes here. Wilton’s 
taking it very hard. When we told him there was a 
flaw in the evidence and he could appeal against his 
sentence, he showed no interest. He was sullen and 
sour as he has been all the time. All he would say 
was ‘What’s the good? You’ve done for me.’ ” 

“Poor devil,” Reggie sighed. 

“It may be.” The governor looked dubious. “No 
one can judge a man’s character on his first days in 
prison. But I’ve known men who gave me a good 
deal more reason to believe them innocent.” 

Dr. Wilton was brought in, a shred of a man in 
his prison clothes. A haggard face glowered at 
Reggie. “My name’s Fortune, Dr. Wilton,” Reggie 
held out his hand. It was ignored. “I come from 
Scotland Yard. I found the mistake which had 
been made about the tobacco. It made me very in¬ 
terested in your case. I feel sure we don’t know 
the truth of it. If you can help me to that it’s 
going to help you.” He waited. 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 87 

“The police can't help me,” said Wilton. “I'm 
not going to say anything." 

“My dear chap, I know that was a bad blunder. 
But there's more than that wants looking into. If 
you’ll give us a chance we might be able to clear up 
the whole case and set you on your feet again. 
That’s what I’m here for." 

And Wilton laughed. “No thanks," he said un¬ 
pleasantly. 

“Just think of it. I can’t do you any harm. I'm 
looking for the truth. I’m on your side. What I 
want to know is, have you got any enemies ? Any¬ 
one who might like to damage you ? Anybody who 
wanted to put you out of the way?" 

“Only the police," said Wilton. 

“Oh, my dear chap!’’ Reggie brushed that away. 
“Did anything strange ever happen to you before 
this charge?" 

“What?" Wilton flushed. “Oh, I see. I’m 
an old criminal, am I? Better look for my pre¬ 
vious convictions. Or you can invent ’em. Quite 
easy." 

“My dear chap, what good can this do you?" 
said Reggie sadly. “The police didn’t invent this 
charge. Your friend Mr. Witt made it. Do you 
know anything about Mr. Witt? Did it ever occur 
to you he wanted you off the scene—in Dutch 
colonies—or in prison?" 

“I’ve nothing against Witt," said Wilton. 


88 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“Oh, my dear fellow! How did the diamonds get 
in your room?” 

“Yes, how did they?” said Wilton savagely. 
“Ask your police inspector. The man who said that 
was my tobacco. You’re a policeman. You know 
how these jobs are done.” 

“I wish I did,” Reggie sighed. “If I did I dare 
say you wouldn’t be here.” 

But he could get no more out of Dr. Wilton. He 
went away sorrowful. He had not recovered his 
spirits when he sought Lomas next morning. Lomas 
was brisk. “You’re the man I want. What’s the 
convict’s theory of it?” 

Reggie shook his head. “Lomas, old thing, do I 
ever seem a little vain of my personal charm? The 
sort of fellow who thinks fellows can’t resist him?” 

“Nothing offensive, Fortune. A little childlike, 
perhaps. You do admire yourself, don’t you?” 

“Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’ When you find 
me feeling fascinating again, kindly murmur the 
name Wilton. I didn’t fascinate him. Not one 
little damn. He was impossible.” 

“You surprise me,” said Lomas gravely. “Noth¬ 
ing out of him at all?” 

“Too much, too much,” Reggie sighed. “Sullen, 
insolent, stupid—that was our young doctor, poor 
devil. It was the wicked police that did him in, a 
put-up job by the force, the inspector hid the dia¬ 
monds in his room to spite him. Such was Dr. 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


89 

Horace Wilton, the common, silly criminal to the 
life. It means nothing, of course. The poor beg¬ 
gar’s dazed. Like a child kicking the naughty chair 
that he fell over.” 

“I’m not so sure,” said Lomas. “The inspector 
has shot himself, Fortune. We had him up here, you 
know, to inquire into the case. He was nervous 
and confused. He went back home and committed 
suicide.” Reggie Fortune huddled himself together 
in his chair. “Nothing against the man before. 
There’s only this question of the tobacco against 
him now. But it looks ugly, doesn’t it?” 

“We know he said the tobacco was what it isn’t. 
If that made him kill himself he was too conscien¬ 
tious for a policeman, poor beggar. Why does it 
look ugly, Lomas? I think it’s pitiful. My God, if 
we all shot ourselves when we made mistakes, there 
would be vacancies in the force. Poor Wilton said 
the inspector put the diamonds in his room. But 
that’s crazy.” 

“It’s all crazy. You are a little confused your¬ 
self, Fortune. You say it’s preposterous for the 
man to shoot himself merely because he made a 
mistake, and equally preposterous to suppose he had 
any other reason.” 

“Poor beggar, poor beggar,” Reggie murmured. 
“No, Lomas, I’m not confused. I’m only angry. 
Wilton’s not guilty and your inspector’s not guilty. 
And one’s in prison and one’s dead, and we call our- 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


90 

selves policemen. Shutting the stable door after the 
horse’s stolen, that’s a policeman’s job. But great 
heavens, we don’t even shut the door.” 

Lomas shook his head. “Not only angry, I fear, 
but rattled. My dear Fortune, what can we do?” 

“Witt hasn’t shown his hand?” 

“Not unless he had a hand in the inspector’s sui¬ 
cide.” 

“I suppose it was suicide?” 

“Well, you’d better look at the body. The evi¬ 
dence is good enough.” 

“Nothing in the papers?” 

Lomas stared at him. “Columns of course. All 
quite futile. You didn’t expect evidence in the 
papers, did you?” 

“You never know, you know. You don’t put a 
proper value on the Press, Lomas.” 

It has been remarked of Mr. Fortune that when he 
is interested he will do everything himself. This is 
considered by professional critics a weakness. Yet 
in this case of the young doctor, where he was con¬ 
tinually occupied with details, he seems to have kept 
a clear head for strategy. 

He went to see the inspector’s body in the mortu¬ 
ary. He came out in gloomy thought. 

“Satisfied, sir?” said Superintendent Bell, who 
escorted him. 

Reggie stopped and stared at him “Oh, Peter, 
what a word!” he muttered. “Satisfied! No, 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


9i 


Bell, not satisfied. Only infuriated. He killed 
himself all right, poor beggar. One more victim for 
Witt and Company.” 

“What’s the next move, sir.” 

“Good-bye,” said Mr. Fortune. “I’m going home 
to read the papers.” 

With all the London papers which had appeared 
since the news that there was a doubt about the jus¬ 
tice of Wilton’s conviction had been given them, he 
shut himself into his study. Most of them had 
taken the hint that there was a mystery in the case 
and made a lot of it. The more rational were con¬ 
tent to tell the story in detail, pointing out the in¬ 
congruity of such a man as Wilton and the crime. 
The more fatuous put out wild inventions as to the 
theories held by the police. But there was general 
sympathy with Dr. Wilton, a general readiness to 
expect that he would be cleared. He had a good 
press—except for the “Daily Watchman.” 

The “Daily Watchman” began in the same strain 
as the rest of the sillier papers, taking Wilton’s inno¬ 
cence for granted, and devising crazy explanations 
of the burglary. But on the third day it burst into 
a different tune. Under a full-page headline “The 
Wilton Scandal,” its readers were warned against 
the manufactured agitation to release the man Wil¬ 
ton. It was a trick of politicians and civil servants 
and intellectuals to prevent the punishment of a 
rascally criminal. It was another case of one law 


92 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


for the rich and another for the poor. It was a cor¬ 
rupt job to save a scoundrel who had friends in 
high places. It was, in fine, all sorts of iniquity, 
and the British people must rise in their might and 
keep the wicked Wilton in gaol if they did not want 
burglars calling every night. 

Mr. Fortune went to sup at that one of his clubs 
used by certain journalists. There he sought and at 
last found Simon Winterbottom, the queerest mix¬ 
ture of scholarship, slang, and backstairs gossip to 
be found in London. “Winter,” said he, having 
stayed the man with flagons, “who runs the ‘Daily 
Watchman’?” 

“My God!” Winterbottom was much affected. 
“Are you well, Reginald? Are you quite well? 
It’s the wonkiest print on the market. All news¬ 
papers are run by madmen, but the ‘Watchman’ 
merely dithers.” 

“You said ‘on the market,’ ” Reggie repeated. 
“Corrupt?” 

“Well, naturally. Too balmy to live honest. 
Why this moral fervour, Reginald ? I know you’re 
officially a guardian of virtue, but you mustn’t let it 
weigh on your mind.” 

“I want to know why the ‘Watchman’ changed 
sides on the Wilton case.” 

Winterbottom grinned. “That was a giddy stunt, 
wasn’t it? The complete Gadarene. I don’t know, 
Reginald. Why ask for reasons ? ‘Let twenty pass 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 93 

and stone the twenty-first, loving not, hating not, 
just choosing so.’ ” 

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “It’s the change 
of mind. The sudden change of mind. This is 
rather a bad business, Winter.” 

“Oh, simian,” Winterbottom agreed. His comi¬ 
cal face was working. “You are taking it hard, 
Reginald.” 

“I’m thinking of that poor devil Wilton. Who 
got at the ‘Watchman,’ old thing? I could bear to 
know.” 

On the next day but one Mr. Fortune received a 
letter. 

Dear R.,— 

The greaser Kemp who owns the “Watchman” 
came in one bright day, cancelled all instructions on 
the Wilton case and dictated the new line. No 
known cause for the rash act. It leaks from his 
wretched intimates that Kemp has a new pal, one 
Kuyper, a ruffian said by some to be a Hun, certainly 
a City mushroom. This seems highly irrelevant. 
You must not expect Kemp to be rational even in 
his vices. Sorry. g 

Mr. Fortune went into the city and consumed 
turtle soup and oyster patties with Tommy Owen, 
the young son of an ancient firm of stockbrokers. 
When they were back again in the dungeon which is 
Tommy’s office, “Thomas, do you know anything of 
one Kuyper?” he said. 

“Wrong number, old bean,” Tommy Owen shook 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


94 

his round head. “Not in my department. Inter¬ 
national finance is Mr. Julius Kuyper’s line. ,, 

Reggie smiled. It is the foible of Tommy Owen 
to profess ignorance. “Big business?” he said. 

“Not so much big business as queer business. Mr. 
Julius Kuyper blew into London some months ago. 
Yes, January. He is said to be negotiating deals in 
Russian mining properties.” 

“Sounds like selling gold bricks.” 

“Well, not in my department,” said Tommy 
Owen again. “There’s some money somewhere. 
Mr. Kuyper does the thing in style. He’s thick with 
some fellows who don’t go where money isn’t. In 
point of fact, old dear, I’ve rather wondered about 
Mr. Kuyper. Do you know anything?” 

“Nothing that fits, Tommy. What does he want 
in London?” 

“Search me,” said Tommy Owen. “I say, For¬ 
tune, when Russia went pop some blokes must have 
laid their hands on a lot of good stuff. I suppose 
you fellows at Scotland Yard know where it’s 
gone ?” 

“I wonder if your friend Kuyper’s been dealing 
in jewels.” 

Tommy Owen looked wary. “Don’t that fit, old 
bean? There’s a blighter that’s been busy with 
brother Kuyper blossomed out with a rare old black 
pearl in his tiepin. They used to tell me the good 
black pearls went to Russia.” 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


95 


‘‘What is Kuyper? A Hun?” 

“I wouldn’t bet on it. He might be anything. 
Lean beggar, oldish, trim little beard, very well 
groomed, talks English well, says he’s a Dutchman. 
You could see him yourself. He has offices in that 
ghastly new block in Mawdleyn Lane.” 

“Thanks very much, Thomas,” said Mr. Fortune. 

“Oh, not a bit. Sorry I don’t know anything 
about the blighter,” said Tommy Owen, and Mr. 
Fortune laughed. 

As a taxi took him home to Wimpole Street he 
considered his evidence. The mysterious Kuyper 
said he was Dutch. The vanished Witt also said 
he was Dutch. Kuyper said he was selling Russian 
jewels. Witt also dealt in jewels. Mr. Fortune 
went home and telephoned to Lomas that Julius 
Kuyper of Mawdleyn Lane should be watched, and 
by men of experience. 

Even over the telephone the voice of Lomas ex¬ 
pressed surprise. “Kuyper?” it repeated. “What 
is the reference, Fortune? The Wilton case. Quite 
so. You did say Julius Kuyper? But he’s political. 
He’s a Bolshevik.” 

Reggie also felt some surprise but he did not 
show it. 

“Some of your men who’ve moved in good crim¬ 
inal society,” he said firmly. “Rush it, old thing.” 

After breakfast on the next day but one he was 
going to the telephone to talk to Lomas when the 


96 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

thing rang at him. “Is that Fortune ?” said 
Lomas’s voice. “Speaking? The great Mr. For¬ 
tune! I looks towards you, Reginald. I likewise 
bows. Come right on.” 

Mr. Fortune found Lomas with Superintendent 
Bell. They lay back in their chairs and looked at 
him. Lomas started up, came to him and walked 
round him, eyeglass up. 

“What is this?” said Mr. Fortune. “Dumb 
crambo ?” 

“Admiration,” Lomas sighed. “Reverence. Awe. 
How do you do these things, Fortune? You look 
only human, not to say childlike. Yet you have us 
all beat. You arrive while we’re still looking for 
the way.” 

“I wouldn’t have said it was a case for Mr. For¬ 
tune, either,” said Bell. 

“No flowers, by request. Don’t be an owl, 
Lomas. Who is Kuyper?” 

Lomas sat down again. “I hoped you were going 
to tell us that,” he said. “What in the world made 
you go for Kuyper?” 

“He calls himself Dutch and so did Witt. He 
deals in jewels and so did Witt. And I fancy he set 
the ‘Daily Watchman’ howling that Wilton must 
stay in prison.” 

“And if you will kindly make sense of that for me 
I shall be obliged,” said Lomas. 

“It doesn’t make sense. I know that. Hang it 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 97 

all, you must do something 1 for yourselves. Justify 
your existence, Lomas. Who is Kuyper?” 

“The political branch have had their eye on him 
for some time. He’s been selling off Russian jewels. 
They believe he’s a Bolshevik.” 

“That don’t help us,” Reggie murmured. 

“No. The connexion of Wilton with Bolshevism 
isn’t what you’d call obvious. I did think you were 
hunting the wild, wild goose, Reginald. All my 
apologies. None of our men recognized Kuyper. 
But one of them did recognize Mr. Witt. Mr. Witt 
is now something in Kuyper’s office. Marvellous, 
Reginald. How do you do it?” 

“My head,” said Reggie Fortune. “Oh, my 
head! Kuyper’s a Bolshevik agent and Kuyper 
employs a man to put Wilton out of the way. It’s 
a bad dream.” 

“Yes, it’s not plausible. Not one of your more 
lucid cases, Fortune.” 

“I had thought,” said Bell diffidently, “if Dr. 
Wilton happened to get to know of some Bolshevik 
plot, they would be wanting to put him out.” 

“They would—in a novel,” Reggie shook his 
head. “But hang it all, Wilton don’t know that he 
ever knew anything.” 

“P’r’aps he’s a bit of a Bolshevik himself, sir,” 
said Bell. 

Lomas laughed. “Bell has a turn for melo¬ 
drama.” 


98 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“Yes. Yes, there is a lot of melodrama in the 
world. But somehow I don’t fancy Kuyper, Witt 
and Co. play it. I think I’ll go and have a little talk 
with the firm.” 

“You?” Lomas stared at him. 

“Not alone, I reckon, sir.” Bell stood up. 

“Well, you come and chaperon me. Yes, I want 
to look at ’em, Lomas. Wilton’s a medical man, 
you know. I want to see the patients, too.” 

“You can try it,” Lomas said dubiously. “You 
realize we have nothing definite against Witt, and 
nothing at all against Kuyper. And I’m not sure 
that Kuyper hasn’t smelt a rat. He’s been staying 
at the Olympian. He was there on Tuesday night, 
but last night our men lost him.” 

“Come on, Bell,” said Mr. Fortune. 

Outside the big new block in Mawdleyn Lane 
Superintendent Bell stopped a moment and looked 
round. A man crossed the road and made a sign as 
he vanished into a doorway. 

“He’s in, sir,” Bell said, and they went up to the 
offices of Mr. Julius Kuyper. 

A pert young woman received them. They 
wanted to see Mr. Kuyper? By appointment? 
Oh, Mr. Kuyper never saw anyone except by ap¬ 
pointment. 

“He’ll see me,” said Bell, and gave her a card. 
She looked him over impudently and vanished. 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


99 

Another young woman peered round the glass 
screen at them. 

“Sorry.” The first young woman came briskly 
back. “Mr. Kuyper’s not in. Better write and 
ask for an appointment.” 

“That won’t do. Who is in?” said Bell heavily. 

“Don’t you bully me!” she cried. 

“You don’t want to get into trouble, do you?” 
Bell frowned down at her. “You go in there 
and say Superintendent Bell is waiting to see Mr. 
Witt.” 

“We haven’t got any Mr. Witt.” 

“You do as you’re told.” 

She went. She was gone a long time. A mur¬ 
mur of voices was audible. She came out again, 
looking flustered. “Well, what about it?” said Bell. 

“I don’t know anything about it,” she said. A 
door slammed, a bell rang. She made a nervous 
exclamation and turned to answer it. Bell went first 
and Reggie on his heels. 

In the inner room an oldish man stood smoothing 
his hair. He was flushed and at the sight of Bell he 
cried out: “But you intrude, sir.” 

“Ah, here’s our old friend, Mr. Witt,” Bell 
smiled. “I should-” 

“There is some mistake. You are wrong, sir. 
What is your name? Mr. Superintendent—my 
name is Siegel.” 



IOO 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“I dare say it is. Then why did you call your¬ 
self Witt?” 

“I do not know what you mean.” 

“I don’t forget faces. I should know you any¬ 
where. You’re the Mr. Witt who prosecuted Dr. 
Horace Wilton. Come, come, the game’s up now.” 

“What do you mean by that, sir?” 

“Time to tell the truth,” said Reggie sweetly, 
“time you began to think of yourself, isn’t it? We 
know all about the evidence in the Wilton burglary. 
Why did you do it, Mr. Witt? It wasn’t safe, you 
know.” 

“What do you want?” 

“Well, where’s your friend Mr. Kuyper? We 
had better have him in.” 

“Mr. Kuyper has gone out, sir.” 

Reggie laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so. You’re 
not doing yourself justice. I don’t suppose you 
wanted to trap Dr. Wilton. You’d better consider 
your position. What is Mr. Kuyper’s little game 
with you?” 

Mr. Witt looked nervously round the room. “You 
—you mustn’t—I mean we can’t talk here,” he said. 
“The girls will be listening.” 

“Oh, send the girls out to tea,” said Bell. 

“No. I can’t do that. I had rather come with 
you, Mr. Superintendent. I would rather indeed.” 

“Come on then.” 

Mr. Witt, who was shaking with nervous fear, 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


IOI 


caught up his hat and coat. The farther door of the 
room was flung open. Two pistol shots were fired. 
As Reggie sprang at the door it was slammed in his 
face and locked. Mr. Witt went down in a heap. 
Bell dashed through the outer office into the corridor. 
Reggie knelt by Mr. Witt. “Kuyper,” Mr. Witt 
gasped. “Kuyper.” 

“I know. I know. We’ll get him yet. Where's 
he gone?” 

“His yacht,” Mr. Witt gasped. “Yacht at 
Gravesend. He had it ready.” He groaned and 
writhed. He was hit in the shoulder and stomach. 

Reggie did what he could for the man, and went 
to the telephone. He had finished demanding an 
ambulance when Bell came back breathless, with 
policemen in uniform at his heels. 

“The swine,” Bell gasped. “He’s of?, sir. Must 
have gone down the other staircase into Bull Court. 
We had a man there but he wouldn’t know there was 
anything up, he’d only follow. Pray God he don’t 
lose him. They lost him last night.” 

“Send these girls away,” said Mr. Fortune. “Let 
the constables keep the door. I want to use the 
telephone.” And when the ambulance had come 
and taken Mr. Witt, happily unconscious at last, to 
hospital, he was still talking into the telephone. “Is 
that clear?” he concluded. “All right. Good-bye.” 
He hung up the receiver. “Come on, Bell. It’s 
Gravesend now. This is our busy day.” 


102 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“Gravesend?” The superintendent stared. 

But it was into a teashop that Reggie plunged 
when they reached the street. He came out with 
large paper bags just as a big car turned painfully 
into Mawdleyn Lane. “Good man,” he smiled upon 
the chauffeur. “Gravesend police station. And 
let her out when you can.” With his mouth full he 
expounded to Superintendent Bell his theory of the 
evasion of Mr. Kuyper. 

As the car drew up in Gravesend a man in plain 
clothes came out of the police station. “Scotland 
Yard, sir?” Bell pulled a card out. “Inspector’s 
down on the beach now. I was to take you to 
him.” 

By the pier the inspector was waiting. He hur¬ 
ried up to their car. “Got him?” said Bell. 

“He’s off. You didn’t give us much time. But 
he’s been here. A man answering to your descrip¬ 
tion hired a motor yacht—cutter with auxiliary 
engine—six weeks ago. It was rather noticed, 
being an unusual time of year to start yachting. 
He’s been down odd times and slept aboard. He 
seems to have slept aboard last night. I can’t find 
anyone who’s seen him here to-day. But there’s a 
longshoreman swears he saw a Tilbury boat go 
alongside the Cyrilla —that’s his yacht—a while 
since, and the Cyrilla's away.” 

“Have you got a fast boat ready for us?” 

“At the pier head, sir. Motor launch.” 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


103 

“Good work,” Reggie smiled. And they hurried 
on board. 

“What’s the job, sir?” The captain of the launch 
touched his cap. 

“Dig out after the Cyrilla. You know her, don’t 
you?” 

“I do so. But I reckon she ain’t in sight. What’s 
the course?” 

“Down stream. She’ll be making for the Dutch 
coast. Are you good for a long run?” 

“Surely. And I reckon it will be a long run. 
She’s fast, is Cyrilla . Wind her up, Jim,” and the 
launch began to throb through the water. 

Mr. Fortune retired under the hood and lit his 
pipe, and Bell followed him. “He’s smart, isn’t he, 
sir, our Mr. Kuyper? His yacht at Gravesend and 
he comes down by Tilbury. That’s neat work.” 

“Don’t rub it in, Bell. I know I ought to have 
thought of Tilbury.” 

Bell stared at him. “Good Lord, Mr. Fortune, 
I’m not blaming you, sir.” 

“I am,” said Reggie. “It’s an untidy case, Bell. 
Well, well. I wonder if I’ve missed anything 
more ?” 

“I don’t know what you’ve missed, sir. I know I 
wouldn’t like to be on the run if you were after me.” 

Reggie looked at the large man with a gleam of 
amusement. “It would be rather joyful, Bell,” he 
chuckled, and was solemn again. “No. I am 


104 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


not happy. Je n’ai pas de courage . I want Mr. 
Kuyper.” 

It was a grey day. The Essex flats lay dim and 
sombre. The lights on the southern shore were 
blurred. Yet they could see far out to the Nore. 
An east wind was whipping the flood tide into tiny 
waves, through which the launch clove, making, after 
the manner of her kind, a great show of speed, leav¬ 
ing the tramps that chunked outward bound as 
though they lay at anchor. 

“Do you see her yet?” Reggie asked the captain. 

“Maybe that’s her,” he pointed to a dim line on 
the horizon beyond the lightship, a sailless mast, if 
it was anything. “Maybe not.” He spat over the 
side. 

“Are you gaining on her?” 

“I reckon we’re coming up, sir.” 

“What’s that thing doing?” Reggie pointed to 
a long low black craft near the Nore. 

“Destroyer, sir. Engine’s stopped.” 

“Run down to her, will you? How does one 
address the Navy, Bell? I feel shy. Ask him if 
he’s the duty destroyer of the Nore Command, will 
you ?” 

“Good Lord, sir,” said Bell. 

The captain of the launch hailed. “Duty de¬ 
stroyer, sir?” 

“Aye, aye. Scotland Yard launch? Come along¬ 
side.” 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


105 

“Thank God for the Navy, as the soldier said,” 
Mr. Fortune murmured. “Perhaps it will be 
warmer on board her.” 

“I say, sir, did you order a destroyer out?” 

“Oh, I asked Lomas to turn out the Navy. I 
thought we might want ’em.” 

Superintendent Bell gazed at him. “And you 
say you forget things,” he said. “Witt’s shot and 
all in a minute you have all this in your head.” 

They climbed a most unpleasant ladder. A young 
lieutenant received them. “You gentlemen got a 
job of work for us?” 

“A motor yacht, cutter rig, name Cyrilla , left 
Gravesend an hour or two ago, probably making for 
the Dutch coast. There’s a man on board that’s 
badly wanted.” 

“Can do,” the lieutenant smiled and ran up to the 
bridge. “Starboard five. Half ahead both.” He 
spoke into a voice pipe. “You’d better come up 
here,” he called to them. “We’ll whack her up as 
we go.” 

The destroyer began to quiver gently to the purr 
of the turbines. Reggie cowered under the wind 
screen. The speed grew and grew and the destroyer 
sat down on her stern and on either side white waves 
rushed from the high sharp bow. “Who is your 
friend on the yacht?” the lieutenant smiled. 

“His last is attempted murder. But that was 
only this morning.” 


106 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“You fellows don’t lose much time,” said the 
lieutenant with more respect. “You seem to want 
him bad.” 

“I could bear to see him,” said Reggie. “He 
interests me as a medical man.” 

“Medical?” the lieutenant stared at him. 

“Quite a lot of crime is medical,” said Reggie. 

The lieutenant gave it up and again asked for 
more speed and began to use his binoculars. 
“There’s a cutter rig,” he pointed at something in¬ 
visible. “Not under sail. Laying a course for 
Flushing. That’s good enough, what?” 

The destroyer came up fast. A white hull was 
revealed to the naked eye. The lieutenant spoke 
to his signalman and flags fluttered above the bridge. 
“Not answered. D’ye think your friend’ll put up a 
scrap ?” 

“I dare say he will, if his crew will stand for it.” 

“Praise God,” said the lieutenant. “Will they 
have any arms?” 

“Pistols, likely,” said Bell. 

“Well! She is Cyrilla” He picked up a mega¬ 
phone and roared through it. “The cutter! Cyrilla! 
Stop your engine!” 

There was some movement on the yacht’s deck. 
She did stop her engine or slow. A shot was heard. 
She started her engine again and again stopped. A 
man ran aft and held up his hand. The destroyer 
drew abeam and the lieutenant said what occurred to 


THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


107 


him of yachts which did not obey Navy signals. 
There was no answer. A little knot of men on the 
Cyrilla gazed at the destroyer. 

“You fellows going aboard her? Got guns? I’ll 
give you an armed boat’s crew.” 

Behind the destroyer’s sub-lieutenant Bell and 
Reggie came to the yacht’s deck. “Where’s the 
captain ? Don’t you know enough to read signals ?” 
Thus the sub-lieutenant began. 

“Where’s Mr. Kuyper?” said Bell. 

“We didn’t understand your signals, sir.” The 
captain licked his lips. “Don’t know anything 
about a Mr. Kuyper. We’ve got a Mr. Hotten, a 
Dutch gentleman. He’s my owner, as you might 
say.” 

“Where is he?” 

“Down the engine-room. It was him fired at the 
engineer to make him start her up again when I ’ad 
stopped. I laid him out with a spanner.” 

“Bring him up,” Bell said. 

A slim spruce body was laid on the deck, precisely 
the Julius Kuyper of Tommy Owen’s description. 
Reggie knelt down beside him. 

“He ain’t dead, is he?” said the yacht’s captain 
anxiously. 

But the stertorous breath of Mr. Kuyper could be 
heard. “My only aunt,” Reggie muttered. 

“What’s the matter, sir?” 

“Man hasn’t got a heart. This is very unusual. 


io8 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


Good Lord! Heart well over on the right side. 
Heterotaxy very marked. Quite unusual. Ah! 
That’s more to the point. He’s had an operation on 
the thyroid gland. Yes. Just so.” He smiled 
happily. 

“What was that word you said, sir?” 

“Heterotaxy? Oh, it only means he’s got his 
things all over on the wrong side.” 

“Then I know him!” Bell cried. “I thought I 
knew the look of him, as old as he is now. It’s 
Lawton, sir, Lawton of the big bank frauds. He 
went off with fifty thousand or more. Before your 
time, but you must have heard of it. Did a clear 
getaway.” 

“And that’s that,” said Reggie. “Now we 
know.” 

* * * * * 

Some days afterwards the Hon. Sidney Lomas 
called on Mr. Fortune, who was at the moment 
making a modest supper of devilled sole. “Did you 
clear it up?” he said. 

“Try that champagne. It’s young but has dis¬ 
tinction. Oh yes, Dr. Wilton quite agrees with me. 
A faulty thyroid gland is the root of the trouble.” 

“I don’t want to hear about Mr. Kuyper Lawton’s 
diseases. I-” 

“My dear fellow! But that is the whole case. 
Mr. Kuyper-Lawton is undoubtedly a man of great 
ability. But there was always a cachexis of the 
thyroid gland. This caused a certain mental insta- 



THE YOUNG DOCTOR 


109 

bility. Unsound judgment. Violence of temper. 
It’s quite common.” 

“Is it though?” said Lomas. “And why was 
he violent to poor Wilton?” 

“Well, Lawton got clean away after his bank 
frauds, as you know-” 

“I know all about Lawton. He lived on the 
plunder in Holland as Adrian Hotten and flourished, 
till the war. Then he lost most of his money back¬ 
ing Germany to win. In the end of 1917 he went 
off to Russia. This year he turned up in London as 
Julius Kuyper, talking about Russian finance and 
selling Russian jewels.” 

“Quite so. Well, in February he was in a motor 
accident in Cavendish Square. A lorry hit his car 
and he was thrown out and stunned. The unfor¬ 
tunate Wilton was passing and gave him first-aid, 
and discovered that his heart was on the wrong side. 
He came to under Wilton’s hands. I suppose Wil¬ 
ton showed a little too much interest. Anyhow, 
Mr. Kuyper saw that the malformation which would 
identify him with Lawton of the bank frauds was 
known to the young doctor. Well, he kept his head 
then. He was very grateful. He asked for Wilton’s 
card. And Wilton never heard any more of him. 
But Wilton was interested in this striking case of 
heterotaxy. He noted the number of the car, found 
the garage from which it was hired and went round 
to ask who the man was. They wouldn’t tell him, 
but the chauffeur, I suppose, told Mr. Kuyper the 



no 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


doctor was asking after him. He sent Witt to take 
a flat over Wilton’s and find out what Wilton was up 
to. I take it Mr. Kuyper was doing mighty good 
business in London and didn’t want to run away. 
He needn’t have bothered—but that’s the man all 
over, brilliantly ingenious and no judgment. That 
thyroid of his! Wilton had come to know the local 
detective-inspector, that poor chap who committed 
suicide. I’m mighty sorry for that fellow, Lomas. 
He was so keen against Wilton because he was afraid 
of not doing his duty when he liked the man—and 
then he found he’d blundered into giving false evi¬ 
dence against his friend. I don’t wonder he chose 
to die.” 

“Conscience makes fools of us all,” said Lomas. 

“Yes. Yes. Poor beggar. And no wonder Wil¬ 
ton was bitter against him. Well, Kuyper decided 
that Wilton with his curiosity and his friend in the 
police wasn’t safe at large. First they tried to ship 
him out of the country and he wouldn’t go. So they 
put up the burglary. I suppose Witt or Witt’s friend 
the sham Dutch journalist is a Hun. That accounts 
for the Rauch-tabak and the German key£.” 

“Lawton-Kuyper has done a lot of business with 
Germany himself.” 

“Yes. He ought to have been on the great 
General Staff. The right type of mind. One of 
our native Prussians. An able man—a very able 
man. If his thyroid had been healthy!” 


CASE IV 


THE MAGIC STONE 

A NIGHTINGALE began to sing in the limes. 

Mr. Fortune smiled through his cigar 
smoke at the moon and slid lower into his 
chair. In the silver light his garden was a wonder¬ 
land. He could see fairies dancing on the lawn. 
The fine odour of the cigar was glorified by the 
mingled fragrance of the night, the spicy scent of 
the lime flowers borne on a wind which came from 
the river over meadowsweet and hay. The music 
of the nightingale was heard through the soft mur¬ 
mur of the weir stream. 

The head of the Criminal Investigation Depart¬ 
ment was arguing that the case of the Town Clerk 
of Barchester offered an example of the abuse of the 
simple poisons in married life. 

Mr. Reginald Fortune, though his chief adviser, 
said no word. 

The head of the Criminal Investigation Depart¬ 
ment came at last to an end. “That’s the case, then.” 
He stood up and knocked over his coffee cup: a 
tinkling clatter, a profound silence and then only the 

in 


112 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


murmur of the water. The nightingale was gone. 
“Well, Fortune?” 

Mr. Fortune sighed and raised himself. “Dear 
me, Lomas,” he said sadly, “why don’t you find 
something to do?” 

The Hon. Sidney Lomas suffered from a sense of 
wrong and said so. It was a difficult and complex 
case and had given him much anxiety and he wanted 
Fortune’s advice and- 

“She did him in all right,” said Reggie Fortune 
succinctly, “and you’ll never find a jury to hang her. 
Why don’t you bring me something interesting?” 

Lomas then complained of him, pointing out that 
a policeman’s life was not a happy one, that he did 
not arrange or even choose the crimes of his country. 
“Interesting? Good Gad, do you suppose I am inter¬ 
ested in this female Bluebeard? I know my job’s 
not interesting. Work’s work.” 

“And eggs is eggs. You have no soul, Lomas.” 
Reggie Fortune stood up. “Come and have a drink.” 
He led the way from the dim veranda into his study 
and switched on the light. “Now that,” he pointed 
to a pale purple fluid, “that is a romantic liqueur: it 
feels just like a ghost story: I brought it back from 
the Pyrenees.” 

“Whisky,” said Lomas morosely. 

“My dear chap, are we down-hearted?” 

“You should go to Scotland Yard, Fortune.” 
Lomas clung to his grievance. “Perhaps you would 



THE MAGIC STONE 


**3 

find it interesting. What do you think they brought 
me this afternoon? Some poor devil had an epilep¬ 
tic fit in the British Museum/’ 

“Well, well”—Reggie Fortune sipped his purple 
liqueur—“the British Museum has made me feel 
queer. But not epileptic. On the contrary. 
Sprightly fellow. This is a nice story. Go on, 
Lomas.” 

“That’s all,” Lomas snapped. “Interesting, isn’t 
it?” 

“Then why Scotland Yard? You’re not an hos¬ 
pital for nervous diseases. Or are you, Lomas?” 

“I wonder,” said Lomas bitterly. “Why Scot¬ 
land Yard? Just so. Why? Because they’ve lost 
an infernal pebble in the fray. And will I find it 
for them please? Most interesting case.” 

Reggie Fortune took another cigar and composed 
himself for comfort. “Begin at the beginning,” he 
advised, “and relate all facts without passion or 
recrimination.” 

“There are no facts, confound you. It was in the 
Ethnological Gallery of the British Museum—where 
nobody ever goes. Some fellow did go and had a 
fit. He broke one of the glass cases in his convul¬ 
sions. They picked him up and he came round. 
He was very apologetic, left them a fiver to pay for 
the glass and an address in New York. He was an 
American doing Europe and just off to France with 
his family. When they looked over the case after- 


11 4 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

wards they found one of the stones in it was gone. 
The epilept couldn’t have taken it, poor devil. Any¬ 
body who was in the gallery might have pocketed it 
in the confusion. Most likely a child. The thing is 
only a pebble with some paint on it. A pundit from 
the Museum came to me with his hair on end and 
wanted me to sift London for it. I asked him what 
it was worth and he couldn’t tell me. Only an 
anthropologist would want the thing, he said. It 
seems an acquired taste. I haven’t acquired it. I 
told him this was my busy day.” 

Reggie Fortune smiled benignly. “But this is 
art,” he said. “This is alluring, Lomas. Have you 
cabled to New York?” 

“Have I-?” Lomas stopped his whisky on the 

way to his mouth. “No, Fortune, I have not cabled 
New York. Nor have I sent for the military. The 
British Museum is still without a garrison.” 

“Well, you know, this gentleman with the fit may 
be a collector.” 

“Oh, Lord, no. It was a real fit. No deception. 
They had a doctor to him.” 

Reggie Fortune was much affected. “Therfe 
speaks the great heart of the people. The doctor 
always knows! I love your simple faith, Lomas. 
It cheers me. But I’m a doctor myself. My dear 
chap, has no one ever murmured into the innocence 
of Scotland Yard that a fit can be faked?” 

“I dare say I am credulous,” said Lomas. “But 



THE MAGIC STONE 


US 

I draw the line somewhere. If you ask me to believe 
that a fellow shammed epilepsy, cut himself and 
spent a fiver to pick up a pebble, I draw it there.” 

‘That’s the worst of credulity. It’s always skepti¬ 
cal in the wrong place. What was this pebble like ?” 

Lomas reached for a writing-pad and drew the 
likeness of a fat cigar, upon which parallel to each 
other were two zigzag lines. “A greenish bit of 
stone, with those marks in red. That’s the Museum 
man’s description. If it had been old, which it isn’t, 
it would have been a galet colore. And if it had 
come from Australia, which it didn’t, it would have 
been a chu—chu something-” 

“Churinga.” 

“That’s the word. The pundit from the Museum 
says it came from Borneo. They don’t know what 
the marks mean, but the thing is a sort of mascot in 
Borneo: a high-class insurance policy. The fellow 
who holds it can’t die. So the simple Bornese don’t 
part with their pebbles easily. There isn’t another 
known in Europe. That’s where it hurts the 
Museum pundit. He says it’s priceless. I told him 
marbles were selling thirty a penny. Nice round 
marbles, all colours.” 

“Yes. You have no soul, Lomas.” 

“I dare say. I’m busy.” 

“With toxic spouses!” said Reggie reproachfully. 
“Green, was it? Green quartz, I suppose, or per¬ 
haps jade with the pattern in oxide of iron.” 


n6 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“And I expect some child has swopped it for a 
green apple.” 

“Lomas dear,” Mr. Fortune expostulated, “this 
is romance. Ten thousand years ago the cave men 
in France painted these patterns on stones. And 
still in Borneo there’s men making them for magic. 
Big magic. A charm against death. And some 
bright lad comes down to,Bloomsbury and throws a 
fit to steal one. My hat, he’s the heir of all the 
ages! I could bear to meet this epilept.” 

“I couldn’t,” said Lomas. “I have to meet quite 
enough of the weak-minded officially.” 

But Reggie Fortune was deaf to satire. “A magic 
stone,” he murmured happily. 

“Oh, take the case by all means,” said Lomas. 
“I’m glad I’ve brought you something that really 
interests you. Let me know when you find the 
pebble,” and announcing that he had a day’s work to 
do on the morrow, he went with an air of injury to 
bed. 

It was an enemy (a K.C. after a long and vain 
cross-examination) who said that Mr. Fortune has a 
larger mass of useless knowledge than any man in 
England. Mr. Fortune has been heard to explain his 
eminence in the application of science to crime by 
explaining that he knows nothing thoroughly but a 
little of everything, thus preserving an open mind. 
This may account for his instant conviction that 
there was something for him in the matter of the 


THE MAGIC STONE 


117 

magic stone. Or will you prefer to believe with 
Superintendent Bell that he has some singular fac¬ 
ulty for feeling other men’s minds at work, a sort 
of sixth sense ? This is mystical, and no one is less 
of a mystic than Reggie Fortune. 

To the extreme discomfort of Lomas he filled the 
time which their car took in reaching London with a 
lecture on the case. He found that three explana¬ 
tions were possible. The stone might have been 
stolen by some one who believed in its magical power, 
or by some one who coveted it for a collection, or by 
some one who meant to sell it to a collector. 

“Why stop?” Lomas yawned. “It might have 
been snapped up by a kleptomaniac or an ostrich or 
a lunatic. Or perhaps some chap wanted to crack a 
nut. Or a winkle. Does one crack winkles?” 

Reggie went on seriously. He thought it unlikely 
that the thing was stolen as a charm. 

“Oh, don’t lose heart,” said Lomas. “Why not 
put it down to a brave from Borneo? The original 
owner comes over in his war paint to claim his long 
lost magic stone. Malay runs amuck in Museum. 
That would go well in the papers. Very plausible, 
too. Compare the mysterious Indians who are al¬ 
ways hunting down their temple jewels in novels.” 

“Lomas, you have a futile mind. Of course some 
fellow might want it for an amulet. It’s not only 
savages who believe in charms. How many men 
carried a mascot through the war ? But your epilep- 


n8 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


tic friend with the New York address don’t suggest 
this simple faith. I suspect a collector.” 

“Well, I’ll believe anything of collectors,” Lomas 
admitted. “They collect heads in Borneo, don’t 
they? I know a fellow who collects shoes. Scalps 
or stamps or press-cuttings, it’s all very sad.” 

“I want you to cable to New York and verify this 
epilept. Which I do not think. I’m going to look 
about for him here.” 

“My dear Fortune!” Lomas sat up and put up an 
eyeglass to examine him. “Are you well ? That is 
zeal. But what exactly are you looking for?” 

“That’s what I want to find out,” said Reggie, and 
having left Lomas at Scotland Yard made a round of 
calls. 

It is believed that there is no class of trade, from 
bargees to bishops, in which Reggie Fortune has not 
friends. The first he sought was a dealer in exotic 
curiosities. From him, not without diplomatic sup¬ 
pression of the truth, Mr. Fortune made sure that 
magic stones from Borneo were nothing accounted 
of in the trade, seldom seen and never sought. It 
was obvious that the subject did not interest his 
dealer, who could not tell where Mr. Fortune would 
find such a thing. Old Demetrius Jacob was as 
likely a man as any. 

“Queer name,” said Mr. Fortune. 

“Queer fish,” he was informed. “Syrian, you 


THE MAGIC STONE 


119 

know, with a bit of Greek. A lot of odd small stuff 
goes his way.” 

Mr. Fortune filed Demetrius Jacob for reference 
and visited another friend, a wholesale draper, whose 
real interest in life was his collection of objects of 
savage art. A still more diplomatic economy of the 
truth brought out the fact that the draper did not 
possess a magic stone of Borneo, and would do and 
pay a good deal to obtain one. He was excited by 
the mere thought. And Reggie Fortune watching 
him as he expanded on the theme of magic stones, 
said to himself: “Yes, old thing, a collector is the 
nigger in this wood pile.” The draper returning to 
the cold reality mourned that his collection lacked 
this treasure, and cheered up again at the thought 
that nobody else had it. 

“Nobody?” said Reggie Fortune. “Really?” 

The draper was annoyed. “Well, I know old 
Tetherdown hasn’t. And he has the best collection 
in England. Of course with his money he can do 
anything.” 

Reggie Fortune neatly diverting the conversation 
to harmless subjects, consulted his encyclopaedic 
memory about old Tetherdown. 

Lord Tetherdown was a little gentleman of middle 
age, reputed by connoisseurs to be the shabbiest in 
London. He inherited great wealth and used it by 
living like a hermit and amassing an anthropological 


120 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


collection. That afternoon saw Reggie Fortune 
knocking at a little house in a back street of Mayfair. 
The door was opened by an old woman in an overall. 
Lord Tetherdown was not at home. Reggie Fortune 
exhibited great surprise. “Really? But I counted 
on seeing him. Can you tell me when he’ll be back?” 

“No, I can’t; he’s away.” 

It appeared to Reggie that she was ill at ease. 
“Away?” he repeated. “Oh, that’s absurd. When 
did he go?” 

“He was off last night.” 

“Really ? But didn’t he say when he’d be back ?” 

“No, he didn’t, young man.” 

“It’s amazing.” 

“I don’t know what call you have to be amazed, 
neither,” she cried. 

“But I counted on seeing him to-day,” Reggie ex¬ 
plained. “I had better come in and write a note.” 

The old woman did not seem to think so, but she 
let him in and took him to a little room. Reggie 
Fortune caught his breath. For the place was inef¬ 
fably musty. It was also very full. There was 
hardly space for both him and the woman. Cabinets 
lined the walls; and in the corners, in between the 
cabinets, on top, on the mantel and the window sill 
were multitudes of queer things. A large and 
diabolical mask of red feathers towered above him, 
and he turned from it to see a row of glittering little 
skulls made of rock crystal and lapis lazuli and 


THE MAGIC STONE 


121 


carved with hideous realism. On the door hung a 
cloak made of many coloured bird skins and a neck¬ 
lace of human teeth with the green image of a demon 
as pendant. A golden dragon with crystal eyes 
gaped on the sideboard over the whisky decanter. 

Reggie showed no surprise. He slid into a chair 
by the table and looked at the old woman. “I don’t 
know what you want that you can’t say,” she grum¬ 
bled, unlocked a desk and put before him one sheet 
of paper, one envelope, pen and ink. 

“Well, it’s about a curio,” Reggie smiled upon 
her. 

“The good Lord knows we’ve enough of them,” 
she cried. “That’s what took him away now.” 

Reggie showed no interest and naturally, while he 
went on writing that Mr. Fortune was anxious to 
consult Lord Tetherdown on a matter of anthro¬ 
pology, she went on talking. He learnt that it was a 
gentleman coming about a curio who took Lord 
Tetherdown away the night before, and she made it 
plain that she thought little of gentlemen who came 
about curios. 

“Didn’t he say when he would be back?” Reggie 
asked as he stood up to go. 

“Not a word, I tell you.” 

“Well, that’s strange.” 

“Strange, is it? It’s plain you don’t know the 
master, young man. He’d go to the end of kingdom 
come for his pretties.” 


122 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“I hope he hasn’t gone as far as that,” said Reggie. 
He saw as he turned the corner of the street that she 
was still looking after him. “She knows more than 
she says,” he told himself, “or she’s more rattled 
than she’ll let on.” He went to Scotland Yard. 

Lomas was pleased to see him. “And how do you 
like marbles, Fortune?” he said genially. “An in¬ 
tellectual game, I’m told. The glass ones are the 
trumps now, Bell says. I’m afraid you’re old- 
fashioned. Stone isn’t used by the best people.” 

“Breakin’ upon this merry persiflage,” said 
Reggie, “have you heard from New York.” 

“New York is silent. Probably stunned by your 
searching question. But the American Embassy 
speaks. Where’s that report, Bell?” 

Superintendent Bell, with an apologetic smile, for 
he always liked Mr. Fortune, read out: “James L. 
Beeton is a well-known and opulent citizen now 
travelling in Europe for his health. Present address 
not known.” 

“For his health, mark you,” Lomas added. 

“Yes. There is some good intelligence work in 
this business. But not at Scotland Yard.” 

“He is very harsh with us, Bell. I fear he has had 
a bad day. The marbles ran badly for him. My 
dear Fortune, I always told you there was nothing 
in it.” 

“You did,” said Reggie grimly. “I’ll forgive 


THE MAGIC STONE 


123 

you, but I won’t promise to forget. Do you know 
Lord Tetherdown?” 

“The little rag bag who collects rags and bones? 
He has been a joke this ten years.’’ 

“Lord Tetherdown is a very wealthy man,” said 
Superintendent Bell with respect. 

“Yes. He’s gone. Now, Lomas, stemming your 
cheery wit, apply your mind to this. Yesterday 
morning a rare specimen was stolen from the British 
Museum. Yesterday evening Lord Tetherdown, 
who collects such things, who hasn’t got that partic¬ 
ular thing and would pay through the nose to get it, 
was called on by a man about a curio. Lord Tether¬ 
down went out and vanished.” 

“My dear fellow!” Lomas put up his eyeglass. 
“I admire your imagination. But what is it you 
want me to believe? That Tetherdown arranged 
for this accursed stone to be stolen?” 

“I doubt that,” said Reggie thoughtfully. 

“So do I. He’s a meek shy little man. Well 
then, did the thief try to sell it to Tetherdown? 
Why should that make Tetherdown run away?” 
“It might decoy him away.” 

Lomas stared at him, apparently trying to believe 
that he was real. “My dear fellow!” he protested. 
“Oh, my dear fellow! This is fantastic. Why 
should anyone suddenly decoy little Tetherdown? 
He never made an enemy. He would have nothing 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


124 

on him to steal. It’s an old joke that he don’t carry 
the worth of a shilling. He has lived in that hovel 
with his two old fogeys of servants for years and 
sometimes he goes off mysteriously and the fellows 
in his club only notice he has been away when he 
blows in again.” 

“You’re a bom policeman, Lomas,” Reggie 
sighed. “You’re so commonplace.” 

“Quite, quite,” said Lomas heartily. “Now tell 
me. You’ve been to Tetherdown’s place. Did his 
servants say they were surprised he had gone off?” 

“The old dame said he often went off on a sud¬ 
den,” Reggie admitted, and Lomas laughed. “Well, 
what about it? You won’t do anything?” 

“My dear Fortune, I’m only a policeman, as you 
say. I can’t act without some reason.” 

“Oh, my aunt!” said Reggie. “Reasons! Good 
night. Sleep sound.” 

In comfortable moments since he has been heard 
to confess that Lomas was perfectly right, that there 
was nothing which the police could have done, but 
he is apt to diverge into an argument that police¬ 
men are creatures whose function in the world is to 
shut the stable door after the horse is stolen. A 
pet theory of his. 

He went to the most solemn of his clubs and 
having soothed his feelings with muffins, turned up 
Lord Tether down in the peerage. The house of 
Tetherdown took little space. John William Bishop 


THE MAGIC STONE 


125 


Coppett was the seventh baron, but his ancestors 
were not distinguished and the family was dwindling. 
John William Lord Tetherdown had no male kin 
alive but his heir, who was his half-brother, the 
Hon. George Bishop Coppett. The Hon. George 
seemed from his clubs to be a sportsman. Mr. For¬ 
tune meditated. 

On his way home he called upon the Hon. George, 
whose taste in dwellings and servants was different 
from his half-brother’s. Mr. Coppett had a flat in a 
vast, new and gorgeous block. His door was opened 
by a young man who used a good tailor and was very 
wide awake. But Mr. Coppett, like Lord Tether¬ 
down, was not at home. His man, looking more 
knowing than ever, did not think it would be of any 
use to call again. Oh, no, sir, Mr. Coppett was not 
out of town: he would certainly be back that night: 
but (something like a wink flickered on the young 
man’s face) too late to see anyone. If the gentleman 
would ring up in the morning—not too early— 
Reggie Fortune said that it didn’t much matter. 

He went off to dine with her whom he describes as 
his friskier sister: the one who married a bishop. 
It made him sleep sound. 

Thus the case of the magic stone was left to fer¬ 
ment for some fifteen hours. For which Mr. Fortune 
has been heard to blame himself and the conjugal 
bliss of bishops. 

Over a deviled sole at breakfast—nature de- 


126 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


manded piquant food—his mind again became active. 
He rang for his car. Sam, his admirable chauffeur, 
was told that he preferred to drive himself, which 
is always in him a sign of mental excitement. 
“Country work, sir?” Sam asked anxiously, for he 
holds that only on Salisbury Plain should Mr. For¬ 
tune be allowed to drive. Mr. Fortune shook his 
head, and Sam swallowed and they came down upon 
Oxford Street like the wolf on the fold. The big 
car was inserted, a camel into the eye of a needle, 
into the alleyway where Lord Tether down’s house 
lurks. 

Again the old woman in the overall was brought 
to the door. She recognized Reggie Fortune and 
liked him less than ever. “There’s no answer,” she 
cried. “The master’s not back.” 

“Really?” 

“You heard what I said.” 

“He’s not let you know when he’s coming back?” 

“No, he hasn’t, nor I’ve no call to tell you if he 
had. You and your curios!” The door slammed. 

Reggie went back to his car. When it stopped 
again in a shabby street by Covent Garden, Sam 
allowed himself to cough, his one protest from first 
to last: a devoted fellow. Reggie Fortune surveyed 
the shop of Demetrius Jacob, which displayed in its 
dirty window shelves sparsely covered with bad 
imitations of old pewter. Reggie frowned at it, 
looked at the name again and went in. The place 


THE MAGIC STONE 


127 


was like a lumber room. He saw nothing but dam¬ 
aged furniture which had never been good and little 
of that until he found out that the dusty thing on 
which he was standing was an exquisite Chinese 
carpet. Nobody was in the shop, nobody came, 
though the opening door had rung a bell. He made 
it ring again and still had to wait. Then there 
swept through the place a woman, a big woman and 
handsome in her dark oriental way. She did not see 
Reggie, she was too hurried or too angry, if her 
flush and her frown were anger. She banged the 
door and was gone. 

Reggie rapped on a rickety desk. After a moment 
an old man shuffled into the shop, made something 
like a salaam and said: “You want, yes?” Not so 
old after all, Reggie decided on a second glance. He 
shuffled because his slippers were falling off, he was 
bent because he cringed, his yellow face was keen 
and healthy and his eyes bright under black brows, 
but certainly a queer figure in that tight frock coat 
which came nearly to his heels, and his stiff green 
skull cap. 

“Mr. Jacob?” Reggie said. 

“I am Demetrius Jacob,” he pronounced it in the 
Greek way. 

“Well, I am interested in savage religions and 
cults you know, and I’m told you are the man for 
me.” Mr. Jacob again made salaam. “What I’m 
after just now is charms and amulets.” He paused 


128 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


and suddenly rapped out: “Have you got anything 
from Borneo ?” 

Demetrius Jacob showed no surprise or any other 
emotion. “Borneo? Oh, yes, I t’ink,” he smiled. 
“Beautiful t’ings.” He shuffled to a cupboard and 
brought out a tray which contained two skulls and a 
necklace of human teeth. 

Reggie Fortune was supercilious. He demanded 
amulets, stone amulets and in particular a stone 
amulet like a cigar with zigzag painting. 

Demetrius Jacob shook his head. “I not ’ave 
’im,” he said sadly. “Not from Borneo. I ’ave 
beautiful galets colores from France, yes, and 
Russia. But not the east. I never see ’im from the 
east but in the Museum.” 

Reggie Fortune went away thinking that it took a 
clever fellow to be as guileless as that. 

The car plunged through Piccadilly again to the 
flat of the Hon. George Coppett. Mr. Coppett’s 
man received him with a smile which was almost a 
leer. “I’ll see, sir,” he took Reggie’s card. “I’m 
afraid Mr. Coppett’s partic’larly busy.” As Reggie 
was ushered in he heard a bell ring and a woman’s 
voice high and angry, “Oh, yes, I will go. But I do 
not believe you, not one word.” A door was flung 
open and across the hall swept the big woman of 
Demetrius Jacob’s shop. Reggie looked into the 
crown of his hat. She stopped short and stared 
hard at him. Either she did not recognize him or 


THE MAGIC STONE 


129 

did not care who he was. She hurried on and the 
door banged behind her. 

The Hon. George Coppett was a little man who 
walked like a bird. “Damn it, damn it,” he piped, 
jumping about, “what the devil are you at, Brown?” 
He stared at Mr. Fortune, and Brown gave him Mr. 
Fortune’s card. “Hallo, don’t know you, do I? 
I’m in the devil of a hurry.” 

“I think you had better see me, Mr. Coppett,” 
said Reggie. Mr. Coppett swore again and bade 
him come in. 

Mr. Coppett gave himself some whisky. “I say, 
women are the devil,” he said as he wiped his mouth. 
“Have one?” he nodded to the decanter. “No? 
Well, what’s your trouble, Mr.—Mr. Fortune?” 

“I am anxious to have some news of Lord Tether- 
down. 

“Well, why don’t you ask him?” Mr. Coppett 
laughed. 

“He’s not to be found.” 

“What, gone off again, has he? Lord, he’s al¬ 
ways at it. My dear chap, he’s simply potty about 
his curios. I don’t know the first thing about them, 
but it beats me how a fellow can fall for that old 
junk. One of the best and all that don’t you know, 
but it’s a mania with him. He’s always running 
off after some queer bit of tripe.” 

“When do you expect him back?” 

“Search me,” Mr. Coppett laughed. “My dear 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


130 

chap, he don’t tell me his little game. Old Martha 
might know.” 

“She doesn’t.” 

Mr. Coppett laughed again. “He always was a 
close old thing. He just pushes off, don’t you 
know, on any old scent. And after a bit he blows in 
again.” 

“Then—you don’t know—when you’ll see him 
again?” Reggie said slowly. 

“Give you my word I don’t,” Mr. Coppett cried. 
“Sorry, sorry.” 

“So am I,” said Reggie. “Good morning, Mr. 
Coppett.” 

Mr. Coppett did not try to keep him. But he was 
hardly beyond the outer door of the flat when he 
heard Mr. Coppett say, “Hallo, hallo !” He turned, 
The door was still shut. Mr. Coppett was using the 
telephone. He heard “Millfield, double three” some¬ 
thing and could not hear anything more. Millfield, 
as you know, is a quiet middle-class suburb. Mr. 
Fortune went downstairs pensively. 

Pensive he was still when he entered Scotland 
Yard and sought Lomas’s room. “Well, how goes 
the quest for the holy stone ?” Lomas put up his eye¬ 
glass. “My dear Fortune, you’re the knight of the 
rueful countenance.” 

“You’re confused, Lomas. Don’t do it,” Reggie 
complained. “You’re not subtle at Scotland Yard, 
but hang it, you might be clear.” 


THE MAGIC STONE 


131 

“What can we do for you?” 

“One of your largest cigars,” Reggie mumbled 
and took it. “Yes. What can you do. I wonder.” 
He looked at Lomas with a baleful eye. “Who lives 
at Millfield? Speaking more precisely who lives at 
Millfield dotible three something?” Lomas sug¬ 
gested that it was a large order. “It is,” Reggie 
agreed gloomily, “it’s a nasty large order.” And he 
described his morning’s work. “There you are. 
The further you go the queerer.” 

“Quite, quite,” Lomas nodded. “But what’s your 
theory, Fortune?” 

“The workin’ hypothesis is that there’s dirty work 
doin’ when a magic stone gets stolen and the man 
who wants the magic stone vanishes on the same 
day: which is confirmed when a female connected 
with a chap who knows all about magic stones is 
found colloguin’ with the vanished man’s heir: and 
further supported when that heir bein^ rattled runs 
to telephone to the chaste shades of Millfield—the 
last place for a sporting blood like him to keep his 
pals. I ask you, who lives at Millfield double three 
something?” 

Lomas shifted his papers. “George Coppett 
stands to gain by Tether down’s death, of course,” he 
said. “And the only man so far as we know. But 
he’s not badly off, he’s well known, there’s never 
been anything against him. Why should he sud¬ 
denly plan to do away with his brother? All your 


132 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

story might be explained in a dozen ways. There’s 
not an ounce of evidence, Fortune.” 

“You like your evidence after the murder. I 
know that. My God, Lomas, I’m afraid.” 

“My dear fellow!” Lomas was startled. “This 
isn’t like you.” 

“Oh, many thanks. I don’t like men dying, that’s 
all. Professional prejudice. I’m a doctor, you see. 
What the devil are we talking for? Who lives at 
Millfield double three something?” 

“We might get at it,” Lomas said doubtfully and 
rang for Superintendent Bell. “But it’s a needle in 
a bundle of hay. And if Tether down was to be 
murdered, it’s done by now.” 

“Yes, that’s comforting,” said Mr. Fortune. 

Superintendent Bell brought a list of the sub¬ 
scribers to the Millfield exchange and they looked 
over the names of those in the thirty-fourth hundred. 
Most were shopkeepers and ruled out. “George 
Coppett don’t buy his fish in Millfield,” said Reggie 
Fortune. Over the doctors he hesitated. 

“You think it’s some fellow in your own trade?” 
Lomas smiled. “Well, there’s nothing like leather.” 

“Brownrigg,” Reggie Fortune muttered. “I 
know him. 3358 Dr. Jerdan, The Ferns, Chatham 
Park Road. Where’s a medical directory? 3358 
Dr. Jerdan is not in the medical directory. Ring up 
the divisional inspector and ask him what he knows 
about Dr. Jerdan.” / 


THE MAGIC STONE 


133 

There was nothing, Superintendent Bell an¬ 
nounced, known against Dr. Jerdan. He had been 
at the Ferns some time. He didn’t practise. He 
was said to take in private patients. 

“Come on,” said Reggie Fortune, and took the 
Superintendent’s arm. 

“My dear Fortune,” Lomas protested. “This is 
a bow at a venture. We can’t act, you know. Bell 
can’t appear.” 

“Bell’s coming to be a policeman and appear 
when it’s all over. I’m going in to Dr. Jerdan who 
isn’t on the register. And I don’t like it, Lomas. 
Bell shall stay outside. And if I don’t come out 
again—well, then you’ll have evidence, Lomas.” 

Neither Reggie Fortune nor his chauffeur knew 
the way about in Millfield. They sat together and 
Mr. Fortune with a map of London exhorted Sam 
at the wheel and behind them Superintendent Bell 
held tight and thought of his sins. 

The car came by many streets of little drab houses 
to a road in which the houses were large and de¬ 
tached, houses which had been rural villas when 
Victoria was queen. “Now go easy,” Reggie For¬ 
tune said. “Chatham Park Road, Bell. Quiet and 
respectable as the silent tomb. My God, look at 
that! Stop, Sam.” 

What startled him was a hospital nurse on a door¬ 
step. 

“Who is she, sir?” Bell asked. 


134 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“She’s Demetrius Jacob’s friend and George Cop- 
pett’s friend—and now she’s Dr. Jerdan’s friend 
and in nurse’s rig. Keep the car back here. Don’t 
frighten them.” 

He jumped out and hurried on to the Ferns. “I 
don’t like it, young fellow, and that’s a fact,” said 
Bell, and Sam nodded. 

The woman had been let in. Mr. Fortune stood 
a moment surveying the house which was as closely 
curtained as all the rest and like them stood back 
with a curving drive to the door. He rang the bell, 
had no answer, rang again, knocked and knocked 
more loudly. It sounded thunderous in the heavy 
quiet of the Chatham Park Road. 

At last the door was opened by a man, a lanky 
powerful fellow who scowled at Mr. Fortune and 
said, “We ain’t deaf.” 

“I have been kept waiting,” said Reggie. “Dr. 
Jerdan, please.” 

“Not at home.” 

“Oh, I think so. Dr. Jerdan will see me.” 

“Don’t see anyone but by appointment.” 

“Dr. Jerdan will see me. Go and tell him so.” 
The door was shut in his face. After a moment 
or two he began knocking again. It was made plain 
to all the Chatham Park Road that something was 
happening at the Ferns and here and there a curtain 
fluttered. 

Superintendent Bell got out of the car. “You 
stay here, son,” he said. “Don’t stop the engine.” 


THE MAGIC STONE 


135 

But before he reached the house, the door was 
opened and Reggie Fortune saw a sleek man who 
smiled with all his teeth. “So sorry you have been 
waiting,” he purred. “I am Dr. Jerdan’s secretary. 
What can I do for you?” 

“Dr. Jerdan will see me.” 

“Oh, no, I’m afraid not. Dr? Jerdan’s not at 
home.” 

“Why say so?” said Reggie wearily. “Dr. 
Jerdan, please.” 

“You had better tell me your business, sir.” 

“Haven’t you guessed? Lord Tetherdown.” 

“Lord who ?” said the sleek man without a check. 
“I don’t know anything about Lord Tetherdown.” 

“But then you’re only Dr. Jerdan’s secretary,” 
Reggie murmured. 

Something of respect was to be seen in the pale 
eyes that studied him, and, after a long stare, “I’ll 
see what I can do. Come in, sir. What’s your 
name ?” He thrust his head forward like an animal 
snapping, but still he smiled. 

“Fortune. Reginald Fortune.” 

“This way.” The sleek man led him down a bare 
hall and showed him into a room at the back. “Do 
sit down, Mr. Fortune. But I’m afraid you won’t 
see Dr. Jerdan.” He slid out. Reggie heard the 
key turn in the lock. He glanced at the window. 
That was barred. 

“Quite so,” said Reggie. “Now how long will 
Bell wait?” 


136 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

He took his stand so that he would be behind the 
door if it were opened, and listened. There was a 
scurry of feet and some other sound. The feet fell 
silent, the other sound became a steady tapping. 
“Good God, are they nailing him down?” he mut¬ 
tered, took up a chair and dashed it at the lock again 
and again. As he broke out he heard the beat of a 
motor engine. 

Superintendent Bell drawing near saw a car with 
two men up come out of the coach-house of the 
Ferns. He ran into the road and stood in its way. 
It drove straight at him, gathering speed. He made 
a jump for the footboard, and being a heavy man 
missed. The car shot by. 

The respectability of Chatham Park Road then 
heard such a stream of swearing as never had 'flowed 
that way. For Sam has a mother’s love of his best 
car. But he was heroic. He swung its long body 
out across the road, swearing, but nevertheless. The 
fugitives from the Ferns took a chance which was 
no chance. Their car mounted the pavement, hit a 
gate-post and crashed. 

Superintendent Bell arrived to find Sam backing 
his own car to the kerb while he looked complacently 
at its shining sides. “Not a scratch, praise God,” 
he said. 

Superintendent Bell pulled up. “You’re a won¬ 
der, you are,” he said, and gazed at the ruins. The 
smashed car was on its side in a jumble of twisted 


THE MAGIC STONE 


137 

iron and bricks. The driver was underneath. They 
could not move him. There were reasons why 
that did not matter to him. “He’s got his,” said 
Sam. “Where’s the other? There were two of 
them.” 

The other lay half hidden in a laurel hedge. He 
had been flung out, he had broken the railings with 
his head, he had broken the stone below, but his head 
was a gruesome shape. 

In the hall of the Ferns Reggie Fortune stood still 
to listen. That muffled tapping was the only sound 
in the house. It came from below. He went down 
dark stairs into the kitchen. No one was there. 
The sound came from behind a doorway in the 
corner. He flung it open and looked down into the 
blackness of a cellar. He struck a light and saw a 
bundle lying on the ground, a bundle from which 
stuck out two feet and tapped at the cellar steps. 
He brought it up to the kitchen. It was a woman 
with her head and body in a sack. When he had 
cut her loose he saw the dark face of the woman of 
the shop and the flat. She sprang at him and 
grasped his arms. 

“Who are you?” she cried. “Where is Lord 
Tether down ?” 

“My name is Fortune, madame. And yours?” 

“I am Melitta Jacob. What is that to you? 
Where have you put Lord Tetherdown?” 

“I am looking for him.” 


138 MR. FORTUNE'S PRACTICE 

“You! Is he not here? Oh, you shall pay for 
it, you and those others.” 

But Reggie was already running upstairs. One 
room and another he tried in vain and at last at the 
top of the house found a locked door. The key was 
in the lock. Inside on a pallet bed, but clothed, lay 
a little man with some days’ beard. The woman 
thrust Reggie away and flung herself down by the 
bedside and gathered the man to her bosom moaning 
over him. “My lord, my lord.” 

“Oh, my aunt!” said Reggie Fortune. “Now, 
Miss Jacob, please,” he put his hand on her shoul¬ 
der. 

“He is mine,” she said fiercely. 

“Well, just now he’s mine. I’m a doctor.” 

“Oh, is he not dead?” she cried. 

“Not exactly,” said Reggie Fortune. “Not yet.” 
He took the body from quivering arms. 

“What is it, then?” 

“He is drugged, and I should say starved. If 

you-” a heavy footstep drew near. She sprang 

up ready for battle, and in the doorway fell upon 
Superintendent Bell. 

“Easy, easy,” he received her on his large chest 
and made sure of her wrists. “Mr. Fortune—just 
got in by the window—what about this?” 

“That’s all right,” Reggie mumbled from the bed. 
“Send me Sam.” 

“Coming, sir.” Sam ran in. “Those fellows 



THE MAGIC STONE 


139 

didn’t do a getaway. They’re outed. Car smash. 
Both killed. Some smash.” 

“Brandy, meat juice, ammonia,” murmured Mr. 
Fortune, who was writing, “and that. Hurry.” 

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Bell detached himself 
from Melitta Jacob. He took off his hat and tiptoed 
to the bed. “Have they done for him, sir,” he 
muttered. 

Mr. Fortune was again busy over the senseless 
body. One of its hands was clenched. He opened 
the fingers gently, and drew out a greenish lump 
painted with a zigzag pattern in red. “The magic 
stone,” he said. “A charm against death. Well, 
well.” 

Sjt * * * # 

On his lawn which slopes to the weir stream 
Reggie Fortune lay in a deck chair, and a syringa, 
waxen white, shed its fragrance about him. He 
opened his eyes to see the jaunty form of the Hon. 
Sidney Lomas tripping towards him. “Stout fel¬ 
low,” he murmured. “That’s cider cup. There 
was ice in it once,” and he shut his eyes again. 

“I infer that the patient is out of your hands.” 

“They’re going for their honeymoon to Nigeria.” 

“Good Gad,” said Lomas. 

“Collecting, you see. The objects of art of the 
noble savage. She’s rather a dear.” 

“I should have thought he’d done enough collect¬ 
ing. Does he understand yet what happened?” 


140 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“Oh, he’s quite lucid. Seems to think it’s all 
very natural.” 

“Does he though ?” 

“Only he’s rather annoyed with brother George. 
He thinks brother George had no right to object to 
his marrying. That’s what started it, you see. 
Brother George came round to borrow his usual 
hundred or so and found him with the magnificent 
Melitta. It occurred to brother George that if 
Tether down was going to marry, something had to 
be done about it. And then I suppose brother 
George consulted the late Jerdan.” Mr. Fortune 
opened his eyes, and raised himself. “By the way, 
who was Jerdan? I saw you hushed up the inquest 
as a motor smash.” 

“Bell thinks he was the doctor who bolted out of 
the Antony case.” 

“Oh, ah. Yes, there was some brains in that. I 
rather thought the late Jerdan had experience. I 
wonder what happened to his private patients at the 
Ferns. Creepy house. I say, was it Jerdan or his 
man who threw the fit at the Museum ?” 

“Jerdan himself, by the description.” 

“Yes. Useful thing, medical training. Well, 
Jerdan saw he could get at Tetherdown through his 
hobby. He came with tales of anthropological 
treasures for sale. The old boy didn’t bite at first. 
Jerdan couldn’t hit on anything he wanted. But he 
found out at last what he did want. Hence the fit in 


THE MAGIC STONE 141 

the Museum. That night Jerdan turned up with the 
Borneo stone and told Tetherdown a friend of his 
had some more of the kind. Tetherdown fell for 
that. He went off to the Ferns with Jerdan. The 
last thing he remembers is sitting down in the back 
room to look at the stone. They chloroformed him, 
I think, there was lots of stuff in the place. Then 
they kept him under morphia and starved him. I 
suppose the notion was to dump his dead body some¬ 
where so that the fact of his death could be estab¬ 
lished and George inherit. There could be no clear 
evidence of murder. Tetherdown is eccentric. It 
would look as if he had gone off his head and wan¬ 
dered about till he died of exhaustion. That was 
the late Jerdan’s idea. Melitta always thought 
George was a bad egg. He didn’t like her, you 
see, and he showed it. When Tetherdown vanished 
she went off to George one time. He laughed at 
her, which was his error. She put on the nurse’s rig 
for a disguise and watched his rooms. When I 
rattled him and he rang up Jerdan, Jerdan came to 
the flat and she followed him back to the Ferns and 
asked for Tetherdown. Jolly awkward for Jerdan 
with me knocking at the door. He was crude with 
her, but I don’t know that I blame him. An able 
fellow. Pity, pity. Yes. What happened to 
brother George?” 

“Bolted. We haven’t a trace of him. Which is 
just as well, for there’s no evidence. Jerdan left no 


142 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

papers. George could have laughed at us if he had 
the nerve.” 

Reggie Fortune chuckled. “I never liked George. 
I rang him up that night: ‘Mr. George Coppett? 
The Ferns speaking. It’s all out’ and I rang off. I 
thought George would quit. George will be worry¬ 
ing quite a lot. So that’s that.” 

“Yes, you have your uses, Fortune,” said Lomas. 
“I’ve noticed it before.” 

Reggie Fortune fumbled in his pocket and drew 
out the magic stone. “Tetherdown said he would 
like me to have it. Cut him to the heart to give it up, 
poor old boy. Told me it saved his life.” He 
smiled. “I don’t care for its methods, myself. 
Better put it back in a glass case, Lomas.” 

“What did Melitta give you?” 

“Melitta is rather a dear,” said Mr. Fortune. 


CASE V 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 

A TELEGRAM was brought to Mr. Fortune. 
It announced that the woman whom his 
ingenuity convicted of the Winstanton 
murder had confessed it in prison just after the 
Home Secretary decided not to hang her. Mr. For¬ 
tune sighed satisfaction and took his hostess in to 
dinner. 

He was staying in a Devonshire country house for 
mental repairs. This is not much like him, for save 
on visits of duty country houses seldom receive him. 
The conversation of the county, he complains, is too 
great a strain upon his intellect. Also, he has no 
interest in killing creatures, except professionally. 
But the output of crime had been large that winter 
and the task of keeping Scotland Yard straight, 
laborious; and he sought relief with Colonel Beach at 
Cranston Regis. For Tom Beach, once in the first 
flight of hunting men, having married a young wife, 
put central heat and electric light into a remote 
Tudor manor house, and retired there to grow iris 
and poultry. Neither poultry nor young wives 
143 


144 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

allured Reggie Fortune, but gardens he loves, and 
his own iris were not satisfying him. 

So he sat by Alice Beach at her table, and while 
her talk flowed on like the brook in the poem, while 
he wondered why men marry, since their bachelor 
dinners are better eating, surveyed with mild eyes 
her and her guests. Tom Beach had probably been 
unable to help marrying her, she was so pink and 
white and round, her eyes so shy and innocent. She 
was one of those women who make it instantly clear 
to men that they exist to be married, and Tom Beach 
has always done his duty. “But she’s not such a 
fool as she looks,” Reggie had pronounced. 

With pity if not sympathy he glanced down the 
table at Tom Beach, that large, red, honest man who 
sat doing his best between dignity and impudence, 
dignity in the awful person of Mrs. Faulks and the 
mighty pretty impudence of his wife’s sister, Sally 
Winslow. Mrs. Faulks has been described as one 
who could never be caught bending, or a model of 
the art of the corset. She is spare, she is straight; 
and few have seen her exhibit interest in anything 
but other people’s incomes, which she always dis¬ 
trusts. A correct woman, but for a habit of wear¬ 
ing too many jewels. 

What she was doing in Tom Beach’s genial house 
was plain enough. Her son had brought her to 
inspect Sally Winslow, as a man brings a vet. to the 
horse he fancies. But it was not plain why Alexan- 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 145 

der Faulks fancied Sally Winslow. Imagine a bull¬ 
dog after a butterfly. But bulldogs have a sense of 
humour. Sally Winslow is a wisp of a creature who 
has no respect for anyone, even herself. Under her 
bright bobbed hair, indeed, is the daintiest colour; 
but when some fellow said she had the face of a 
fairy, a woman suggested the face of a fairy’s maid. 
She listened to Alexander’s heavy talk and watched 
him in a fearful fascination, but sometimes she shot 
a glance across the table where a little man with a 
curly head and a roguish eye was eating his dinner 
demurely. His worst enemies never said that 
Captain Bunny Cosdon’s manners were bad. 

Now you know them all. When they made up a 
four for bridge, upon which Mrs. Faulks always 
insists, it was inevitable that Reggie Fortune should 
stand out, for his simple mind declines to grasp the 
principles of cards. Alexander Faulks in his master¬ 
ful way directed Sally to the table; and scared, but 
submissive, she sat down and giggled nervously. 
Reggie found himself left to his hostess and Captain 
Cosdon. They seemed determined to entertain him 
and he sighed and listened. 

So he says. He is emphatic that he did not go to 
sleep. But the study of the events of that evening 
which afterwards became necessary, makes it clear 
that a long time passed before Alice Beach was say¬ 
ing the first thing that he remembers. “Did you 
ever know a perfect crime, Mr. Fortune?” 


146 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

Mr. Fortune then sat up, as he records, and took 
notice. 

Captain Cosdon burst out laughing, and departed, 
humming a stave of “Meet me to-night in Dream¬ 
land/’ 

Mr. Fortune gazed at his hostess. He had not 
supposed that she could say anything so sensible. 
“Most crimes are perfect,” he said. 

“But how horrible! I should hate to be mur¬ 
dered and know there wasn’t a clue who did it.” 

“Oh, there’ll be a clue all right,” Reggie assured 
her. 

“Are you sure? And will you promise to catch 
my murderer, Mr. Fortune?” 

“Well, you know,” he considered her round ami¬ 
able face, “if you were murdered it would be a case 
of art for art’s sake. That’s very rare. I was 
speakin’ scientifically. A perfect crime is a com¬ 
plete series of cause and effect. Where you have 
that, there’s always a clue, there is always evidence, 
and when you get to work on it the unknown quan¬ 
tities come out. Yes. Most crimes are perfect. 
But you must allow for chance. Sometimes the 
criminal is an idiot. That’s a nuisance. Sometimes 
he has a streak of luck and the crime is damaged 
before we find it, something has been washed out, a 
bit of it has been lost. It’s the imperfect crimes that 
give trouble.” 

“But how fascinating!” 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 147 

“Oh, Lord, no,” said Mr. Fortune. 

The bridge-players were getting up. Sally Win¬ 
slow was announcing that she had lost all but honour. 
Mrs. Faulks wore a ruthless smile. Sally went off to 
bed. 

“Oh, Mrs. Faulks,” her sister cried, “do come. 
Mr. Fortune is lecturing on crime.” 

“Really. How very interesting,” said Mrs. 
Faulks, and transfixed Reggie with an icy stare. 

“The perfect criminal in one lesson,” Alice Beach 
laughed. “I feel a frightful character already. All 
you want is luck, you know. Or else Mr. Fortune 
catches you every time.” 

“I say, you know, Alice,” her husband protested. 

A scream rang out. Alice stopped laughing. The 
little company looked at each other. “Where was 
that?” Tom Beach muttered. 

“Not in the house, Colonel,” Faulks said. “Cer¬ 
tainly not in the house.” 

Tom Beach was making for the window when all 
the lights went out. 

Alice gave a cry. The shrill voice of Mrs. Faulks 
arose to say, “Really!” Colonel Beach could be 
heard swearing. “Don’t let us get excited,” said 
Faulks. Reggie Fortune struck a match. 

“Excited be damned,” said Tom Beach, and rang 
the bell. 

Reggie Fortune, holding his match aloft, made for 
the door and opened it. The hall was dark, too. 


148 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

‘‘Oh, Lord, it’s the main fuse blown out!” Tom 
Beach groaned. 

“Or something has happened in your little power 
station,” said Reggie Fortune cheerfully, and his host 
snorted. For the electricity at Cranston Regis comes 
from turbines on the stream which used to fill the 
Tudor fish-ponds, and Colonel Beach loves his 
machinery like a mother. 

He shouted to the butler to bring candles, and out 
of the dark the voice of the butler was heard apolo¬ 
gizing. He roared to the chauffeur, who was his 
engineer, to put in a new fuse. “It’s not the fuse, 
Colonel,” came a startled voice, “there’s no juice.” 

Colonel Beach swore the more. “Run down to 
the power-house, confound you. Where the devil 
are those candles?” 

The butler was very sorry, sir, the butler was 
coming, sir. 

“Really!” said Mrs. Faulks in the dark, for Reg¬ 
gie had grown tired of striking matches. “Most 
inconvenient.” So in the dark they waited. . . . 

And again they heard a scream. It was certainly 
in the house this time, it came from upstairs, it was 
in the voice of Sally Winslow. Reggie Fortune felt 
some one bump against him, and knew by the weight 
it was Faulks. Reggie struck another match, and 
saw him vanish into the darkness above as he called, 
“Miss Winslow, Miss Winslow!” 

There was the sound of a scuffle and a thud. 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 149 

Colonel Beach stormed upstairs. A placid voice 
spoke out of the dark at Reggie’s ear, “I say, what’s 
up with the jolly old house?” The butler arrived 
quivering with a candle in each hand and a body¬ 
guard of candle-bearing satellites, and showed him 
the smiling face of Captain Cosdon. 

From above Colonel Beach roared for lights. 
“The C. O. sounds peeved,” said Captain Cosdon. 
“Some one’s for it, what?” 

They took the butler’s candles and ran up, dis¬ 
covering with the light Mr. Faulks holding his face 
together. “Hallo, hallo! Dirty work at the cross¬ 
roads, what? Why- Sally! Good God!” 

On the floor of the passage Sally Winslow lay 
like a child asleep, one frail bare arm flung up above 
her head. 

“Look at that, Fortune,” Tom Beach cried, 
“Damned scoundrels!” 

“Hold the candle,” said Reggie Fortune; but as 
he knelt beside her the electric light came on again. 

“Great Jimmy!” Captain Cosdon exclaimed. 
“Who did that?” 

“Don’t play the fool, Bunny,” Tom Beach 
growled. “What have they done to her, Fortune?” 

Reggie’s plump, capable hands were moving upon 
the girl delicately. “Knocked her out,” he said, and 
stared down at her, and rubbed his chin. 

“Who ? What ? How ?” Cosdon cried. “Hallo, 
Faulks, what’s your trouble? Who hit you?” 



150 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“How on earth should I know,” Faulks mumbled, 
still feeling his face as he peered at the girl. “When 
Miss Winslow screamed, I ran up. It was dark, of 
course. Some men caught hold of me. I struck out 
and they set on me. I was knocked down. I wish 
you would look at my eye, Fortune.” 

Reggie was looking at Sally, whose face had begun 
to twitch. 

“Your eye will be a merry colour to-morrow,” 
Cosdon assured him. “But who hit Sally?” 

“It was the fellows who set upon me, I suppose, of 
course; they were attacking her when I rescued her.” 

“Stout fellow,” said Cosdon. “How many were 
there?” 

“Quite a number. Quite. How can I possibly 
tell? It was dark. Quite a number.” 

Sally tried to sneeze and failed, opened her eyes 
and murmured, “The light, the light.” She saw the 
men about her and began to laugh hysterically. 

“Good God, the scoundrels may be in the house 
still,” cried Tom Beach. “Come on, Cosdon.” 

“I should say so,” said Captain Cosdon, but he 
lingered over Sally. “All right now?” he asked 
anxiously. 

“Oh, Bunny,” she choked in her laughter. “Yes, 
yes, I’m all right. Oh, Mr. Fortune, what is it? 
Oh, poor Mr. Faulks, what has happened?” 

“Just so,” said Reggie. He picked her up and 
walked off with her to her bedroom. 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 151 

“Oh, you are strong,” she said, not coquetting, 
but in honest surprise, like a child. 

Reggie laughed. “There’s nothing of you,” and 
he laid her down on her bed. “Well, what about 
it?” 

“I feel all muzzy.” 

“That’ll pass off,” said Reggie cheerfully. “Do 
you know what hit you ?” 

“No. Isn’t it horrid? It was all dark, you 
know. There’s no end of a bruise,” she felt behind 
her ear and made a face. 

“I know, I know,” Reggie murmured sympatheti¬ 
cally. “And how did it all begin?” 

“Why, I came up to bed, Mr. Fortune—heavens, 
there may be a man in here now!” she raised herself. 

“Yes, we’d better clear that up,” said Reggie, and 
looked under the bed and opened the wardrobe and 
thrust into her dresses and turned back to her. “No 
luck, Miss Winslow.” 

“Oh, thank goodness,” she sank down again. 
“You see, I came up and put the light on, of course, 
and there was a man at the window there. Then 
I screamed.” 

“The first scream,” Reggie murmured. 

“And then the lights went out. I ran away and 
tumbled over that chair and then out into the pas¬ 
sage. I kept bumping into things and it was horrid. 
And then—oh, somebody caught hold of me and I 
screamed-” 



152 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“The second scream,” Reggie murmured. 

“I was sort of flung about. There were men 
there fighting in the dark. Horrid. Hitting all 
round me, you know. And then—oh, well, I sup¬ 
pose I stopped one, didn’t I?” 

There was a tap at the door. “May I come in, 
doctor?” said Alice Beach. 

“Oh, Alice, have they caught anyone?” 

“Not a creature. Isn’t it awful? Oh, Sally, 
you poor darling,” her sister embraced her. “What 
a shame! Is it bad?” 

“I’m all muddled. And jolly sore.” 

“My dear! It is too bad it should be you. Oh, 
Mr. Fortune, what did happen?” 

“Some fellow knocked her out. She’ll be all 
right in the morning. But keep her quiet and get 
her off to sleep.” He went to the window. It was 
open and the curtains blowing in the wind. He 
looked out. A ladder stood against the wall. “And 
that’s that. Yes. Put her to bed, Mrs. Beach.” 

Outside in the passage he found Captain Cosdon 
waiting. “I say, Fortune, is she much hurt?” 

“She’s taken a good hard knock. She’s not made 
for it. But she’ll be all right.” 

“Sally! Oh damn,” said Cosdon. 

“Did you catch anybody?” 

“Napoo. All clear. The Colonel’s going round 
to see if they got away with anything. And Faulks 
wants you to look at his poor eye.” 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 153 

“Nothing of yours gone?” 

Cosdon laughed. “No. But I’m not exactly the 
burglar’s friend, don’t you know? My family jewels 
wouldn’t please the haughty crook. I say, it’s a 
queer stunt. Ever been in one like it?” 

“I don’t think it went according to plan,” said 
Reggie Fortune. 

He came down and found Faulks with an eye 
dwindling behind a bruise of many colours, arguing 
with an agitated butler that the house must contain 
arnica. Before he could give the attention which 
Mr. Faulks imperiously demanded, the parade voice 
of the Colonel rang through the house. “Fortune, 
come up here!” 

Tom Beach stood in the study where he writes the 
biographies of his poultry and his iris. There also 
are kept the cups, medals and other silver with 
which shows reward their beauty. “Look at that!” 
he cried, with a tragic gesture. The black pedestals 
of the cups, the velvet cases of the medals stood 
empty. 

“Great Jimmy!” said Captain Cosdon in awe. 

“Well, that’s very thorough,” said Reggie. “And 
the next thing, please.” 

Colonel Beach said it was a damned outrage. He 
also supposed that the fellows had stripped the 
whole place. And he bounced out. 

Reggie went to his own room. He had nothing 
which could be stolen but his brushes, and they were 


154 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

not gone. He looked out of the window. In the 
cold March moonlight he saw two men moving 
hither and thither, and recognized one for his chauf¬ 
feur and factotum Sam, and shouted. 

“Nothing doing, sir,” Sam called back. “Clean 
getaway.” 

Reggie went downstairs to the smoking-room. He 
was stretched in a chair consuming soda-water and a 
large cigar when there broke upon him in a wave 
of chattering Tom Beach and Alice and Captain 
Cosdon. 

“Oh, Mr. Fortune, is this a perfect crime?” Alice 
laughed. 

Reggie shook his head. “I’m afraid it had an 
accident in its youth. The crime that took the wrong 
turning.” 

“How do you mean, Fortune?” Tom Beach 
frowned. “It’s deuced awkward.” 

“Awkward is the word,” Reggie agreed. “What’s 
gone, Colonel?” 

“Well, there’s my pots, you know. And Alice has 
lost a set of cameos she had in her dressing-room.” 

“Pigs!” said Alice with conviction. 

“And Mrs. Faulks says they’ve taken that big 
ruby brooch she was wearing before dinner. You 
know it.” 

“It’s one of the things I could bear not to know,” 
Reggie murmured. “Nothing else?” 

“She says she doesn’t know, she’s too upset to be 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 155 

sure. I say, Fortune, this is a jolly business for 
me.” 

“My dear chap!” 

“She’s gone to bed fuming. Faulks is in a sweet 
state too.” 

“What’s he lost?” 

“Only his eye,” Cosdon chuckled. 

“That’s the lot, then? Nice little bag, but rather 
on the small side. Yes, it didn’t go according to 
plan.” 

“Oh, Mr. Fortune, what are you going to do?” 

“Do?” said Reggie reproachfully. “I? Where’s 
the nearest policeman?” 

“Why, here,” Alice pointed at him. 

“Cranston Abbas,” said Tom Beach, “and he’s 
only a yokel. Village constable, don’t you know.” 

“Yes, you are rather remote, Colonel. What is 
there about you that brings the wily cracksman 
down here?” 

“Mrs. Faulks!” Alice cried. “That woman must 
travel with a jeweller’s shop. There’s a chance for 
you, Mr. Fortune. Get her rubies back and you’ll 
win her heart.” 

“Jewelled in fifteen holes. I’d be afraid of bur¬ 
glars. Mrs. Beach, you’re frivolous, and the Col¬ 
onel’s going to burst into tears. Will anyone tell 
me what did happen? We were all in the drawing¬ 
room—no. Where were you, Cosdon?” 

“Writing letters here, old thing.” 


156 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“Quite so. And the servants?” 

“All in the servants’ hall at supper!” Colonel 
Beach said. “They are all right.” 

“Quite. Miss Winslow went upstairs and saw a 
man at her window. There’s a ladder at it. She 
screamed and the lights went out. Why?” 

“The .rascals got at the power-house. Baker 
found the main switch off.” 

“Then they knew their way about here. Have 
you sacked any servant lately? Had any strange 
workman in the place? No? Yet the intelligence 
work was very sound. Well, in the darkness Miss 
Winslow tumbled out into the passage and was 
grabbed and screamed, and the brave Faulks ran 
upstairs and took a black eye, and Miss Winslow 
took the count, and when we arrived there wasn’t a 
burglar in sight. Yes, there was some luck about.” 

“Not for Sally,” said her sister. 

“No,” said Reggie thoughtfully. “No, but there 
was a lot of luck going.” He surveyed them 
through his cigar smoke with a bland smile. 

“What do you think I ought to do, Fortune?” 
said Tom Beach. 

“Go to bed,” said Reggie. “What’s the time? 
Time runs on, doesn’t it? Yes, go to bed.” 

“Oh, but, Mr. Fortune, you are disappointing,” 
Alice Beach cried. 

“I am. I notice it every day. It’s my only vice.” 

“I do think you might be interested!” 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 157 

“A poor crime, but her own,” Captain Cosdon 
chuckled. “It’s no good, Mrs. Beach. It don’t 
appeal to the master mind.” 

“You know, Fortune, it’s devilish awkward,” the 
Colonel protested. 

“I’m sorry. But what can we do? You might 
call up your village policeman. He’s four miles off, 
and I dare say he needs exercise. You might tele¬ 
phone to Thorton and say you have been burgled, 
and will they please watch some road or other for 
some one or other with a bag of silver and a set of 
cameos and a ruby brooch. It doesn’t sound help¬ 
ful, does it?” 

“It sounds damned silly.” 

“But I thought you’d find clues, Mr. Fortune,” 
Alice Beach cried, “all sorts of clues, finger-prints 
and foot-prints and-” 

“And tell us the crime was done by a retired ser¬ 
geant-cook with pink hair and a cast in the eye,” Cos¬ 
don grinned. 

“You see, I’ve no imagination,” said Reggie, 
sadly. 

“Confound you, Cosdon, it isn’t a ioke^Colonel 
Beach cried. 

“No, I don’t think it’s a joke,” Reggie agreed. 

“One of your perfect crimes, Mr. Fortune?” 

“Well, I was sayin’—you have to allow for chance. 
There was a lot of luck about.” 

“What are you thinking of?” 


158 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“The time, Mrs. Beach. Yes, the flight of time. 
We’d better go to bed.” 

But he did not go to bed. He stirred the fire in his 
bedroom and composed himself by it. The affair 
annoyed him. He did not want to be bothered by 
work and his mind insisted on working. Something 
like this. “Philosophically time is an illusion;. 
‘Time travels in divers paces with divers persons/ 
Highly divers, yes. Time is the trouble, Colonel. 
Why was there such a long time between the first 
scream and the second scream ? Sally tumbled 
down, Sally was fumbling in the dark: but it don’t 
take many minutes to get from her room to the 
stairs. She took as long as it took the chauffeur to 
run to the power-house. He started some while 
after the first scream, he had found what was wrong 
and put the light on again within a minute of the 
second. Too much time for Sally—and too little. 
How did Sally’s burglars get off so quick? Faulks 
ran up at the second scream. The rest of us were 
there next minute. They were there to hit Faulks. 
When we came, we saw no one, heard no one and 
found no one.” He shook his head at the firelight. 
“And yet Sally’s rather a dear. I wonder. No, it 
didn’t go according to plan. But I don’t like it, my 
child. It don’t look pretty.” 

He sat up. Somebody was moving in the corridor. 
He went to his table for an electric torch, slid silently 
across the room, flung open the door and flashed on 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 159 

the light. He caught a glimpse of legs vanishing 
round a corner, legs which were crawling, a man’s 
legs. A door was closed stealthily. 

Reggie swept the light along the floor. It fell at 
last on some spots of candle grease dropped where 
the fallen Sally was examined. Thereabouts the legs 
had been. He moved the light to and fro. Close by 
stood an old oak settle. He swept the light about it, 
saw something beneath it flash and picked up Mrs. 
Faulks’s big ruby brooch. 

The early morning, which he does not love, found 
him in the garden. There under Sally’s window the 
ladder still stood. “That came from the potting 
sheds, sir,” his factotum Sam told him. “Matter of 
a hundred yards.” Together they went over the 
path and away to the little power-house by the 
stream. The ground was still hard from the night 
frost. 

“Not a trace,” Reggie murmured. “Well, well. 
Seen anybody about this morning, Sam ?” 

“This morning, sir?” Sam stared. “Not a 
soul.” 

“Have a look,” said Reggie and went in shiver¬ 
ing. 

He was met by the butler who said nervously that 
Colonel Beach had been asking for him and would 
like to see him in the study. There he found not 
only Colonel Beach but Mrs. Beach and Sally and 
Captain Cosdon, a distressful company. It was 


160 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


plain that Mrs. Beach had been crying. Sally was 
on the brink. Cosdon looked like a naughty boy un¬ 
certain of his doom. But the Colonel was tragic, 
the Colonel was taking things very hard. 

Reggie Fortune beamed upon them. “Morning, 
morning. Up already, Miss Winslow? How’s the 
head?” 

Sally tried to say something and gulped. Tom 
Beach broke out: “Sorry to trouble you, Fortune. 
It’s an infernal shame dragging you into this busi¬ 
ness.” He glared at his wife, and she wilted. 

“My dear Colonel, it’s my job,” Reggie protested 
cheerfully, and edged towards the fire which the 
Colonel screened. 

“I’m awfully sorry, Colonel. I’m the one to 
blame,” Cosdon said. “It’s my fault, don’t you 
know.” 

“I don’t know whose fault it isn’t. I know it’s a 
most ghastly mess.” 

“It’s just like a snowball,” Alice laughed hysteri¬ 
cally. “Our snowball burglary.” 

“Snowball?” the Colonel roared at her. 

“Oh, Tom, you know. When you want subscrip¬ 
tions and have a snowball where every one has to get 
some one else to subscribe. I thought of it and I 
brought in Sally and Sally brought in Bunny and 
then Mr. Faulks came in—poor Mr. Faulks—and 
then Mrs. Faulks got into it and her rubies.” 

“And now we’re all in it, up to the neck.” 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 161 


“Yes. Yes, that’s very lucid,” said Reggie. “But 
a little confusing to an outsider. My brain’s rather 
torpid, you know. I only want to get on the fire.” 
He obtained the central position and sighed happily. 
“Well now, the workin’ hypothesis is that there were 
no burglars. Somebody thought it would be inter¬ 
esting to put up a perfect crime. For the benefit of 
the guileless expert.” 

They were stricken by a new spasm of dismay. 
They stared at him. “Yes, you always knew it was 
a fake,” Cosdon cried. “I guessed that last night 
when you kept talking about the time.” 

“Well, I thought a little anxiety would be good 
for you. Even the expert has his feelings.” 

“It was horrid of us, Mr. Fortune,” Sally cried. 
“But it wasn’t only meant for you.” 

“Oh, don’t discourage me.” 

“It was all my fault, Mr. Fortune.” Alice put in 
her claim and looked at him ruefully and then began 
to laugh. “But you did seem so bored-” 

“Oh, no, no, no. Only my placid nature. Well 
now, to begin at the beginning. Somebody thought it 
would be a merry jest to have me on. That was you, 
Mrs. Beach. For your kindly interest, I thank you.” 

Mrs. Beach again showed signs of weeping. 

“Please don’t be horrid, Mr. Fortune,” said Sally, 
fervently. 

“I’m trying to be fascinating. But you see I’m so 
respectable. You unnerve me.” 



162 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“I thought of a burglary,” said Mrs. Beach, chok¬ 
ing sobs. “And I asked Sally to do it.” 

“And she did—all for my sake. Well, one never 
knows,” Reggie sighed, and looked sentimental. 

“It wasn’t you,” said Sally. “I wanted to shock 
Mr. Faulks.” 

“Dear, dear. I shouldn’t wonder if you have.” 

“Oh!” Sally shuddered. “That man is on my 
nerves. He simply follows me about. He scares 
me. When I found he’d got Tom to ask him here 
I-” 

“Yes, of course, it’s my fault,” Tom Beach cried. 
“I knew it would come round to that.” 

“You didn’t know, dear, how could you?” Sally 
soothed him. “He doesn’t make love to you. Well, 
he was here and his mamma and—oh, Mr. Fortune, 
you’ve seen them. They want shocking. So I talked 
to Bunny and-” 

“And I came in with both feet,” said Captain 
Cosdon. “My scheme really, Fortune, all my 
scheme.” 

“All ?” Reggie asked with some emphasis. 

“Good Lord, not what’s happened.” 

“I thought we should come to that some day. 
What did happen?” 

And they all began to talk at once. From which 
tumult emerged the clear little voice of Sally. 
“Bunny slipped out early and put a garden ladder 
up at my window and then went off to the power- 





THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 163 

house. When I went to bed, I collected Tom’s pots 
from the study—that was because he is so vain of 
them—and Alice’s cameos—that’s because they’re 
so dowdy—and locked them in my trunk. Then I 
screamed at the window. That was the signal for 
Bunny and he switched the lights out and came 
back. All that was what we planned.” She looked 
pathetically at Reggie. “It was a good crime, 
wasn’t it, Mr. Fortune?” 

“You have a turn for the profession, Miss Wins¬ 
low. You will try to be too clever. It’s the mark 
of the criminal mind.” 

“I say, hang it all, Fortune-” Cosdon flushed. 

“I know I spoilt it,” said Sally meekly. “I just 
stood there, you know, hearing Tom roar downstairs 
and you all fussing-” 

“And you underrate the policeman. Do I fuss?” 
Reggie was annoyed. 

“You’re fussing over my morals now. Well, I 
stood there and it came over me the burglars just had 
to have something of Mrs. Faulks’s.” She gurgled. 
“That would make it quite perfect. So I ran into 
her room and struck a match and there was her 
awful old ruby brooch. I took that and went out 
into the passage and screamed again. That was the 
plan. Then I bumped into somebody-” 

“That was me,” sad Captain Cosdon. “She 
was such a jolly long time with the second scream 
I went up to see if anything was wrong-” 






164 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“Yes. The criminal will do too much,” Reggie 
sighed. 

“Then Faulks came. He tumbled into us and hit 
out, silly ass. I heard Sally go down and I let him 
have it. Confound him.” 

Sally smiled at him affectionately. 

“Oh yes, it’s devilish funny, isn’t it?” cried Tom 
Beach. “Good God, Cosdon, you’re not fit to be at 
large. A nice thing you’ve let me in for.” 

“Well, you’ve all been very ingenious,” said Reg¬ 
gie. “Thanks for a very jolly evening. May I have 
some breakfast?” 

There was a silence which could be felt. 

“Mr. Fortune,” said Sally, “that awful brooch is 
gone.” 

“Yes, that’s where we slipped up,” said Cosdon. 
“Sally must have dropped it when that fool knocked 
her out. I went out last night to hunt for it and it 
wasn’t there.” 

“Really?” 

Reggie’s tone was sardonic and Cosdon flushed at 
it. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, somebody found it, I suppose. That’s the 
working hypothesis.” 

He reduced them to the dismal condition in which 
he found them. “There you are!” Colonel Beach 
cried. “Some one of the servants saw the beastly 
thing and thought there was a chance to steal it. It’s 
a ghastly business. I’ll have to go through them for 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 165 

it and catch some poor devil who would have gone 
straight enough if you hadn’t played the fool. It’s 
not fair, confound it.” 

There was a tap at the door. Mrs. Faulks was 
asking if the Colonel would speak to her. The 
Colonel groaned and went out. 

“Do you mind if I have some breakfast, Mrs. 
Beach ?” said Reggie plaintively. 

They seemed to think him heartless but offered no 
impediment. A dejected company slunk downstairs. 
It occurred to Reggie, always a just man, that Sam 
also might be hungry and he ran out to take him off 
guard. 

When he came back to the breakfast-room, he 
found that Faulks had joined the party. It was 
clear that no one had dared to tell him the truth. 
They were gazing in fascinated horror at the many 
colours which swelled about his right eye, and his 
scowl was terrible. 

“Hallo, Faulks! Stout fellow,” said Reggie, 
brightly. “How’s the head?” 

Mr. Faulks turned the scowl on him. Mr. Faulks 
found his head very painful. He had had practically 
no sleep. He feared some serious injury to the 
nerves. He must see a doctor. And his tone im¬ 
plied that as a doctor and a man Reggie was con¬ 
temptible. 

Reggie served himself generously with bacon and 
mushrooms and began to eat. No one else was eat- 


166 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


ing but Mr. Faulks. He, in a domineering manner, 
smote boiled eggs. The others played with food 
like passengers in a rolling ship. 

The door was opened. The austere shape of Mrs. 
Faulks stalked in and behind her Tom Beach slunk 
to his place. Mrs. Faulks’s compressed face wore a 
look of triumph. 

Sally half rose from her chair. “Oh, Mrs. 
Faulks,” she cried, “have you found your rubies?” 

“Really!” said Mrs. Faulks with a freezing smile. 
“No, Miss Winslow, I have not found my rubies.” 

“What are you going to do about it?” 

Mrs. Faulks stared at her. “I imagine there is 
only one thing to be done. I have desired Colonel 
Beach to send for the police. I should have thought 
that was obvious.” 

“Oh, Tom, you mustn’t!” Sally cried. 

“Really! My dear, you don’t realize what you’re 
saying.” 

“Yes, I do. You don’t understand, Mrs. Faulks; 

you see it was like this-” and out it all came with 

the Colonel trying to stop it in confused exclama¬ 
tions, and Mrs. Faulks and her heavy son sinking 
deeper and deeper into stupefaction. 

“The whole affair was a practical joke?” said 
Faulks thickly. 

“That’sjdie idea, old thing,” Cosdon assured him. 

“Yes, yes, don’t you see it?” Sally giggled. 



THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 167 

“I never heard anything so disgraceful,” Faulks 
pronounced. 

“I say, go easy,” Cosdon cried. 

Mrs. Faulks had become pale. “Am I expected 
to believe this?” she looked from Tom to Alice. 

“Oh, Mrs. Faulks, I am so sorry,” Alice Beach 
said. “It was too bad. And it’s really all my 
fault.” 

“I—I—you say you stole my rubies?” Mrs. 
Faulks turned upon Sally. 

“Come, come, the child took them for a joke,” 
Colonel Beach protested. 

“I took them, yes—and then I lost them. I’m 
most awfully sorry about that.” 

“Are you indeed. Am I to believe this tale, 
Colonel Beach? Then pray who stole my diamond 
necklace?” 

She produced an awful silence. She seemed 
proud of it, and in a fascination of horror the con¬ 
spirators stared at her. 

“Diamond necklace!” Sally cried. “I never saw 
it.” 

“My necklace is gone. I don’t profess to under¬ 
stand the ideas of joking in this house. But my 
necklace is gone.” 

“Oh, my Lord,” said Cosdon. “That’s torn it.” 

“The snowball!” Alice gasped. “It is a snow¬ 
ball. Everything gets in something else.” 


168 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“Really!” said Mrs. Faulks (her one expletive). 
“I do not understand you.” 

Reggie arose and cut himself a large portion of 
cold beef. 

“If this was a practical joke,” said the solemn 
voice of Faulks, “who struck me?” 

“That was me, old thing,” Cosdon smiled upon 
him. 

“But strictly speakin’,” said Reggie as he came 
back and took more toast, “that’s irrelevant.” 

“Colonel Beach!” Mrs. Faulks commanded the 
wretched man’s attention, “what do you propose to 
do?” 

“We shall have to have the police,” he groaned. 

“Oh, yes, it’s a case for the police,” said Reggie 
cheerfully. “Have you a telegraph form, Colonel?” 

“It’s all right, Fortune, thanks. I’ll telephone.” 

“Yes, encourage local talent. But I would like to 
send a wire to Scotland Yard.” 

“Scotland Yard!” Mrs. Faulks was impressed. 
Mrs. Faulks smiled on him. 

“Well, you know, there are points about your 
case, Mrs. Faulks. I think they would be inter¬ 
ested.” 

Like one handing his own death warrant, Colonel 
Beach put down some telegraph forms. Reggie 
pulled out his pencil, laid it down again and took 
some marmalade. “Valuable necklace, of course, 
Mrs. Faulks?” he said blandly. “Quite so. The 


THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 169 

one you wore the night before last? I remember. 
I remember.” He described it. Mrs. Faulks ap¬ 
proved and elaborated his description. “That’s very 
clear. Are your jewels insured? Yes, well that is 
a certain consolation.” He adjusted his pencil and 
wrote. “I think this will meet the case.” He gave 
the telegram to Mrs. Faulks. 

Mrs. Faulks read it, Mrs. Faulks seemed unable to 
understand. She continued to gaze at it, and the 
wondering company saw her grow red to the frozen 
coils of her hair. 

Reggie was making notes on another telegraph 
form. He read out slowly a precise description of 
the lost necklace. “That’s it, then,” he said. “By 
the way, who are you insured with?” 

Mrs. Faulks glared at him. “I suppose this is 
another joke.” 

“No,” Reggie shook his head. “This has gone 
beyond a joke.” 

“Where is my brooch, then? Who has my 
brooch?” 

“I have,” said Reggie. He pulled it out of his 
pocket and laid it on her plate. “I found the brooch 
in the passage. I didn’t find the necklace, Mrs. 
Faulks. So I should like to send that telegram.” 

“You will do nothing of the kind. I won’t have 
anything done. The whole affair is disgraceful, 
perfectly disgraceful. I forbid you to interfere. Do 
you understand, I forbid it? Colonel Beach! It 


170 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

it impossible for me to stay in your house after the 
way in which you have allowed me to be treated. 
Please order the car.” 

She stalked out of the room. 

“Fortune!” said Faulks thunderously. “Will you 
kindly explain yourself ?” 

“I don’t think I need explaining. But you might 
ask your mother. She kept the telegram.” And 
to his mother Mr. Faulks fled. 

“Good God, Fortune, what have you done?” Tom 
Beach groaned. 

“Not a nice woman,” said Reggie sadly. “Not 
really a nice woman.” He stood up and sought the 
fire and lit a cigar and sighed relief. 

“Mr. Fortune, what was in that telegram?” Sally 
cried. 

Reggie sat down on the cushioned fender. “I 
don’t think you’re really a good little girl, you know,” 
he shook his head at her and surveyed the company. 
“Broadly speaking’ you ought all to be ashamed of 
yourselves. Except the Colonel.” 

“Please, Mr. Fortune, I’ll never do it again,” said 

Alice plaintively. “Tom-” she sat on the arm 

of her husband’s chair and caressed him. 

“All right, all right,” he submitted. “But I say, 
Fortune, what am I to do about Mrs. Faulks?” 

“She’s done all there is to do. No, not a nice 
woman.” 



THE SNOWBALL BURGLARY 171 

Sally held out her small hands. “Please! What 
did you say in that telegram ?” 

“ 'Lomas, Scotland Yard. Jewel robbery Colonel 
Beach’s house curious features tell post office stop 
delivery registered packet posted Cranston this 
morning nine examine contents Reginald Fortune 
Cranston Regis.’ ” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“She did. Sorry to meddle with anyone in your 
house, Colonel. But she would have it. You won’t 
have any trouble.” 

“But what’s the woman done?” the Colonel cried. 

“Well, you know, she’s been led into temptation. 
When she thought burglars had taken her brooch it 
seemed to her that she might as well recover from the 
insurance people for something else too. That’s the 
worst of playing at crime, Mrs. Beach. You never 
know who won’t take it seriously. What made me 
cast an eye at Mrs. Faulks was her saying last night 
that she wasn’t sure whether she had lost anything 
else. I can’t imagine Mrs. Faulks not sure about 
anything. She’s sure she’s an injured woman now. 
And I’ll swear she always has an inventory of all her 
jeweller’s shop in her head.” 

“She has,” said Alice Beach pathetically. “You 
should hear her talk of her jewels.” 

“Heaven forbid. But you see, Miss Winslow, it’s 
the old story, you criminals always try to be too 


172 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

clever. She thought it wouldn’t be enough to say 
she’d lost her diamonds. She wanted them well out 
of the way so that the police could search and not 
find them. So she scurried off to the post office and 
sent them away in a registered packet. Thus, as you 
criminals will, underratin’ the intelligence of the 
simple policeman. My man Sam was looking out to 
see if anyone did anything unusual this morning and 
he observed Mrs. Faulks’s manoeuvres at the post 
office-” 

“And you had her cold!” Cosdon cried. 

“Yes. Yes, a sad story.” 

“She didn’t really mean any harm,” said Sally. 
“Did she, Mr. Fortune ?” 

Reggie looked at her sadly. “You’re not a moral 
little girl, you know,” he said. 



CASE VI 


THE LEADING LADY 

M R. REGINALD FORTUNE sent his punt 
along at the rate of knots. From the 
cushions the Chief of the Criminal Inves¬ 
tigation Department protested. “Why this wanton 
display of skill? Why so strenuous?” 

“It’s good for the figure, Lomas.” 

“Have you a figure?” said Lomas bitterly. It is 
to be confessed that a certain solidity distinguishes 
Reggie Fortune. Years of service as the scientific 
adviser of Scotland Yard have not marred the pink 
and white of his cherubic face, but they have 
brought weight to a body never svelte. 

Mr. Fortune let the punt drift. “That’s vulgar 
abuse. What’s the matter, old thing?” 

“I dislike your horrible competence. Is there 
anything you can’t do?” 

“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Fortune modestly. 
“Jack of all trades and master of none. That is 
why I am a specialist.” 

The Hon. Sidney Lomas sat up. “Secondly, I 
resent your hurry to get rid of me. Thirdly, as I 
i73 


174 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

am going up to London to work and you are going 
back in this punt to do nothing, I should like to 
annoy you. Fourthly and lastly, I know that I 
shan’t, and that embitters me. Does anything ever 
annoy you, Fortune?” 

“Only work. Only the perverse criminal.” 

Lomas groaned. “All criminals are perverse.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Most crime is a natural 
product.” 

“Of course fools are natural,” said Lomas irri¬ 
tably. “The most natural of all animals. And if 
there were no fools—I shouldn’t spend the summer 
at Scotland Yard.” 

“Well, many criminals are weak in the head.” 

“That’s why a policeman’s life is not a happy 
one.” 

“But most of ’em are a natural product. Oppor¬ 
tunity makes the thief or what not—and there but 
for the grace of God go I. Circumstances lead a 
fellow into temptation.” 

“Yes. I’ve wanted to do murder myself. But 
even with you I have hitherto refrained. There’s 
always a kink in the criminal’s mind before he goes 
wrong. Good Gad!” He dropped his voice. “Did 
you see her?” 

Mr. Fortune reproved him. “You’re so suscep¬ 
tible, Lomas. Control yourself. Think of my repu¬ 
tation. I am known in these parts.” 

“Who is she? Lady Macbeth?” 


THE LEADING LADY 


175 


“My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow! I 
thought you were a student of the drama. She’s not 
tragic. She’s comedy and domestic pathos. Tea 
and tears., It was Rose Darcourt.” 

“Good Gad!” said Lomas once more. “She 
looked like Lady Macbeth after the murder.” 

Reggie glanced over his shoulder. From the 
shade of the veranda of the boat-house a white face 
stared at him. It seemed to become aware of him 
and fled. “Indigestion perhaps,” he said. “It does 
feel like remorse. Or have you been trifling with 
her affections, Lomas?” 

“I wouldn’t dare. Do you know her? She looks 
a nice young woman for a quiet tea-party. Passion 
and poison for two.” 

“It’s the physique, you know,” said Mr. Fortune 
sadly. “When they’re long and sinuous and dark 
they will be intense. That’s the etiquette of the 
profession. But it’s spoiling her comedy. She 
takes everything in spasms now and she used to be 
quite restful.” 

“Some silly fool probably told her she was a great 
actress,” Lomas suggested. 

Mr. Fortune did not answer. He was steering the 
punt to the bank. As it slid by the rushes he stooped 
and picked out of the water a large silk bag. This he 
put down at Lomas’s feet, and saying, “Who’s the 
owner of this pretty thing?” once more drove the 
punt on at the rate of knots. 


176 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

Lomas produced from the bag a powder-puff, 
three gold hair-pins and two handkerchiefs. “The 
police have evidence of great importance,” he an¬ 
nounced, “and immediate developments are expected. 
S. Sheridan is the culprit, Fortune.” 

“Sylvia Sheridan?” Reggie laughed. “You know 
we’re out of a paragraph in a picture paper. 'On the 
river this week-end all the stars of the stage were 
shining. Miss Rose Darcourt was looking like 
Juliet on the balcony of her charming boat-house 
and I saw Miss Sylvia Sheridan’s bag floating 
sweetly down stream. Bags are worn bigger than 
ever this year. Miss Sheridan has always been fa¬ 
mous for her bags.’ But this was really dinky!” 

At the bridge he put Lomas into his car and 
strolled up to leave Miss Sheridan’s bag at the police- 
station. 

The sergeant was respectfully affable (Mr. For¬ 
tune is much petted by subordinates) and it took 
some time to reach the bag. When Ascot and the 
early peas and the sergeant’s daughter’s young man 
had been critically estimated, Mr. Fortune said that 
he was only calling on the lost propertv department 
to leave a lady’s bag. “I just picked it out of the 
river,” Reggie explained. “No value to anybody 
but the owner. Seems to belong to Miss Sylvia 
Sheridan. She’s a house down here, hasn’t she? 
You might let her know.” 


THE LEADING LADY 177 

The sergeant stared at Mr. Fortune and breathed 
hard. “What makes you say that, sir?” 

“Say what?” 

“Beg pardon, sir. You’d better see the inspec¬ 
tor.” And the sergeant tumbled out of the room. 

The inspector was flurried. “Mr. Fortune? Very 
glad to see you, sir. Sort of providential your com¬ 
ing in like this. Won’t you sit down, sir? This is a 
queer start. Where might you have found her bag, 
Mr. Fortune?” 

“About a mile above the bridge,” Reggie opened 
his eyes. “Against the reed bank below Miss Dar- 
court’s boat-house.” 

Inspector Oxtoby whistled. “That’s above Miss 
Sheridan’s cottage.” He looked knowing. “Things 
don’t float upstream, Mr. Fortune.” 

“It’s not usual. Why does that worry you?” 

“Miss Sheridan’s missing, Mr. Fortune. I’ve just 
had her housekeeper in giving information. Miss 
Sheridan went out last night and hasn’t been seen 
since. Now you’ve picked up her bag in the river 
above her house. It’s a queer start, isn’t it?” 

“But only a start,” said Reggie gently. “We’re 
not even sure the bag is hers. The handkerchiefs in 
it are marked S. Sheridan. But some women have a 
way of gleaning other women’s handkerchiefs. Her 
housekeeper ought to know her bag. Did her house¬ 
keeper know why she went out ?” 


178 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“No, sir. That’s one of the things that rattled 
her. Miss Sheridan went out after dinner alone, 
walking. They thought she was in the garden and 
went to bed. In the morning she wasn’t in the 
house. She wasn’t in the garden either.” 

“And that’s that,” said Reggie. “Better let them 
know at Scotland Yard. They like work.” And 
he rose to go. It was plain that he had disappointed 
Inspector Oxtoby, who asked rather plaintively if 
there was anything Mr. Fortune could suggest. “I 
should ask her friends, you know,” said Mr. For¬ 
tune, wandering dreamily to the door. “I should 
have a look at her house. There may be something 
in it,” and he left the inspector gaping. 

Reggie Fortune is one of the few people in Eng¬ 
land who like going to the theatre. The others, as 
you must have noticed, like this kind of play or 
that. Mr. Fortune has an impartial and curious 
mind and tries everything. He had therefore formed 
opinions of Sylvia Sheridan and Rose Darcourt 
which are not commonly held. For he was unable 
to take either of them seriously. This hampered 
him, and he calls the case one of his failures. 

On the next morning he came back from bathing 
at the lasher to hear that the telephone had called 
him. He took his car to Scotland Yard and was 
received by Superintendent Bell. That massive 
man was even heavier than usual. “You’ll not be 
pleased with me, Mr. Fortune-” he began. 



THE LEADING LADY 


179 

“If you look at me like that I shall cry. Two 
hours ago I was in nice deep bubbly water. And 
you bring me up to this oven of a town and make me 
think you’re a headmaster with the gout and I’ve 
been a rude little boy.” 

“Mr. Lomas said not to trouble you,” the Super¬ 
intendent mourned. “But I put it to him you’d not 
wish to be out of it, Mr. Fortune.” 

“Damn it, Bell, don’t appeal to my better nature. 
That’s infuriating.” 

“It’s this Sheridan case, sir. Miss Sheridan’s 
vanished.” 

“Well, I haven’t rim away with her. She smiles 
too much. I couldn’t bear it.” 

“She’s gone, sir,” Bell said heavily. “She was to 
have signed her contract as leading lady in Mr. Mark 
Woodcote’s new play. That was yesterday. She 
didn’t come. They had no word from her. And 
yesterday her servants gave information she had 
disappeared-” 

“I know. I was there. So she hasn’t turned up 
yet?” 

“No, sir. And Mr. Lomas and you, you found 
her bag in the river. That was her bag.” 

“Well, well,” said Reggie. “And what’s the 
Criminal Investigation Department going to do about 
it?” 

“Where’s she gone, Mr. Fortune? She didn’t 
take her car. She’s not been seen at Stanton station. 



180 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


She’s not at her flat in town. She’s not with any of 
her friends.” 

‘‘The world is wide,” Reggie murmured. 

“And the river’s pretty deep, Mr. Fortune.” 

At this point Lomas came in. He beamed upon 
them both, he patted Bell’s large shoulder, he came 
to Reggie Fortune. “My dear fellow! Here al¬ 
ready! ‘Duty, stern daughter of the voice of God,’ 
what? How noble—and how good for you!” 

Reggie looked from his jauntiness to the gloom of 
Bell. “Tragedy and comedy, aren’t you?” he said. 
“And very well done, too. But it’s a little confusing 
to the scientific mind.” 

“Well, what do you make of it?” Lomas dropped 
into a chair and lit a cigarette. “Bell’s out for 
blood. An Actress’s Tragedy. Mystery of the 
Thames. Murder or Suicide? That sort of thing. 
But it seems to me it has all the engaging air of an 
advertisement.” 

“Only it isn’t advertised, sir,” said Bell. 
“Twenty-four hours and more since she was reported 
missing, and not a word in the papers yet. That 
don’t look like a stunt. It looks more like some¬ 
body was keeping things quiet.” 

“Yes. Yes, you take that trick, Bell,” Reggie 
nodded. “Who is this remarkable manager that 
don’t tell all the newspapers when his leading lady’s 
missing?” 

“Mr. Montgomery Eagle, sir.” 


THE LEADING LADY 


181 


“But he runs straight,” said Reggie. 

“Oh Lord, yes,” Lomas laughed. “Quite a good 
fellow. Bell is so melodramatic in the hot weather. 
I don’t think Eagle is pulling my leg. I suspect it’s 
the lady who is out for a little free advertisement. 
To be reported missing—that is a sure card. On the 
placards, in the headlines, unlimited space in all the 
papers. Wait and see, Bell. The delay means 
nothing. She couldn’t tell her Press agent to send 
in news of her disappearance. It wouldn’t be 
artistic.” 

Superintendent Bell looked at him compassion¬ 
ately. “And I’m sure I hope you’re right, sir,” he 
said. “But it don’t look that way to me. If she 
wanted to disappear for a joke why did she go and do 
it like this? These young ladies on the stage, they 
value their comforts. She goes off walking at night 
with nothing but what she stood up in. If you ask 
me to believe she meant to do the vanishing act 
when she went out of her house, I can’t see how it’s 
likely.” 

“Strictly speakin’,” said Reggie, “nothing’s likely. 
Why did she go out, Bell? To keep an appointment 
with her murderer?” 

“I don’t see my way, sir. I own it. But there’s 
her garden goes down to the river—suppose she just 
tumbled into the water—she might be there now.” 

“The bag,” said Reggie dreamily. “The bag, 
Bell. It didn’t float upstream, and yet we found it 


i82 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


above her garden. She couldn’t have been walking 
along the bank. The towpath is the other side. 
The bag came into the river from a boat—or from 
the grounds of another house.” 

Lomas laughed. “My dear Fortune, I like your 
earnest simplicity. It’s a new side to your character 
and full of charm. I quite agree the bag is interest¬ 
ing. I think it’s conclusive. A neat and pretty 
touch. The little lady threw it into the river to give 
her disappearance glamour.” 

“Rather well thrown,” said Reggie. “Say a 
quarter of a mile. Hefty damsel.” 

“Oh, my dear fellow, she may have taken a boat, 
she may have crossed and walked up the towpath.” 

“Just to get her bag into the river above her 
house ? Why would she want to put it in above her 
house? She couldn’t be sure that it would stay 
there. It might have sunk. It might have drifted 
a mile farther.” 

Lomas shrugged. “Well, as you say. But we 
don’t know that the bag was lost that night at all. 
She may have dropped it out of a boat any time and 
anywhere.” 

“Yes, but plenty of boats go up and down that 
reach. And we found it bright and early the morn¬ 
ing after she vanished. Why didn’t anybody else 
find it before? I rather fancy it wasn’t there, 
Lomas.” 

“What’s your theory, Mr. Fortune?” said Bell 
eagerly. 


THE LEADING LADY 183 

“My dear fellow! Oh„ my dear fellow! I don’t 
know the lady.” 

“They say she’s a sportive maiden,” Lomas 
smiled. “I’ll wager you’ll have a run for your 
money, Bell.” 

Reggie Fortune considered him severely. “I 
don’t think it’s a race to bet on, Lomas, old thing.” 

It was about this time that Mr. Montgomery 
Eagle’s name was brought in. “Will you see him, 
Mr. Lomas?” Bell said anxiously. 

“Oh Lord, no. I have somethng else to do. 
Make him talk, that’s all you want.” 

The Superintendent turned a bovine but pathetic 
gaze on Reggie. “I think so,” said Mr. Fortune. 
“There are points, Bell.” 

Superintendent Bell arranged himself at the table, 
a large solemn creature, born to inspire confidence. 
Mr. Fortune dragged an easy chair to the window 
and sat on the small of his back and thus disposed 
might have been taken for an undergraduate weary 
of the world. 

Mr. Montgomery Eagle brought another man with 
him. They both exhibited signs of uneasiness. Mr. 
Eagle, whose physical charms, manner and dress 
suggest a butler off duty, wrung his hands and asked 
if the Superintendent had any news. The Super¬ 
intendent asked Mr. Eagle to sit down. “Er, thank 
you. Er—you’re very good. May I—this is Mr. 
Woodcote—the—er—author of the play Miss Sheri- 


184 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

dan was to—-the—play I—er—hope to—very anx¬ 
ious to know if you-” 

“Naturally,” said the Superintendent. “Pleased 
to meet you, Mr. Woodcote.” The dramatist smiled 
nervously. He was still young enough to show an 
awkward simplicity of manner, but his pleasant dark 
face had signs of energy and some ability. “We’re 
rather interested in your case. Now what have you 
got to tell us?” 

“I?” said Woodcote. “Well, I hoped you were 
going to tell us something.” 

“We’ve heard nothing at all,” said Eagle. “Abso¬ 
lutely nothing. Er—it’s—er—very distressing—er 
—serious matter for us—er—whole production held 
up—er—this poor lady—most distressing.” 

“Quite, quite,” Reggie murmured from his chair, 
and the two stared at him. 

“The fact is,” said Superintendent Bell heavily, 
“we can find no one who has seen Miss Sheridan 
since she left her house. We’re where we were 
yesterday, gentlemen. Are you?” 

“Abso-lutely,” said Eagle. 

“First question—did she leave her house?” Reg¬ 
gie murmured. “Second question—why did she 
leave her house?” He sat up with a jerk. “I won¬ 
der. Do you know anything about that?” 

Eagle gaped at him. “Did she leave her house?” 
Woodcote cried. “That’s not doubtful, is it? She’s 
not there.” 



THE LEADING LADY 185 

“Well, I like to begin at the beginning,” said 
Reggie gently. 

“The local men have been over the house, Mr. 
Fortune,” Bell stared at him. 

“I suppose they wouldn’t overlook her,” Wood- 
cote laughed. 

“Second question—why did she leave it? You 
see, we don’t know the lady and I suppose you do. 
Had she many friends who were—intimate?” 

“What are you suggesting?” Woodcote cried. 

“I don’t know. Do you? Is there anyone she 
liked—or anyone she didn’t like?” 

“I must say”—Eagle was emphatic in jerks— 
“never heard a word said—er—against Miss Sheri¬ 
dan—er—very highest reputation.” 

“If you have any suspicions let’s have it out, sir,” 
Woodcote cried. 

“My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow!” Reggie 
(protested. “It’s the case is suspicious, not me. 
The primary hypothesis is that something made 
Miss Sheridan vanish. I’m askin’ you what it was.” 

The manager looked at the dramatist. The 
dramatist looked at Mr. Fortune. “What is it you 
suspect, then?” he said. 

“What does take a lady out alone after dinner?” 
said Reggie. “I wonder.” 

“We don’t know that she went out of the garden, 
sir,” Bell admonished him. 

Reggie lit a cigar. “Think there was a murderer 


186 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


waiting in the garden?” he said as he puffed. 
“Think she was feeling suicidal? Well, it’s always 
possible.” 

“Good God!” said Eagle. 

“You’re rather brutal, sir,” Woodcote grew pale. 

“You don’t like those ideas? Well, what’s 
yours?” They were silent. “Has it ever occurred 
to you somebody might have annoyed Miss Sheri¬ 
dan?” Mr. Montgomery Eagle became of a crimson 
colour. “Yes, think it over,” said Reggie cheer¬ 
fully. “If there was somebody she wanted to take 
it out of-” he smiled and blew smoke rings. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Woodcote stared 
at him. 

“Really? It’s quite simple. Had anything hap¬ 
pened lately to make Miss Sheridan annoyed with 
anybody?” 

“I’m bound to say, sir,” Eagle broke out, “there 
was a—a question about her part. She was to play 
lead in Mr. Woodcote’s new comedy. Well—er—I 
can’t deny—er—Miss Darcourt’s been with me 
before. Miss Darcourt—she was—well, I had—er 
—representations from her the part ought to be 
hers. I—er—I’m afraid Miss Sheridan did come to 
hear of this.” 

“Rose Darcourt couldn’t play it,” said the author 
fiercely. “She couldn’t touch it.” 

“No, no. I don’t suggest she could—er—not at 



THE LEADING LADY 187 

all—but it was an unpleasant situation. Miss Sheri- 
dan was annoyed-” 

“Miss Sheridan was annoyed with Miss Darcourt 
and Miss Darcourt was annoyed with Miss Sheridan. 
And Miss Sheridan goes out alone at night by the 
river and in the river we find her bag. That’s the 
case, then. Well, well.” 

“Do you mean that Rose Darcourt murdered 
her?” Woodcote frowned at him. 

“My dear fellow, you are in such a hurry. I 
mean that I could bear to know a little more about 
Miss Darcourt’s emotions. Do you think you could 
find out if she still wants to play this great part?” 

“She may want,” said Woodcote bitterly. “She 
can go on wanting.” 

“In point of fact,” said Eagle. “I—er—I had a 
letter this morning. She tells me—er—she wouldn’t 
consider acting in—er—in Mr. Woodcote’s play. 
She—er—says I misunderstood her. She never 
thought of it—er—doesn’t care for Mr. Woodcote’s 
work.” 

Mr. Woodcote flushed. “That does worry me,” 
said he. 

“And that’s that.” Reggie stood up. 

Whereon Superintendent Bell with careful official 
assurances got rid of them. They seem surprised. 

“That’s done it, sir,” said Bell. Reggie did not 
answer. He was cooing to a pigeon on the window- 



188 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


sill. “You’ve got it out of them. We’ll be looking 
after this Rose Darcourt.” 

‘‘They don’t like her, do they?” Reggie mur¬ 
mured. “Well, well. They do enjoy their little 
emotions.” He laughed suddenly. “Let’s tell 
Lomas.” 

That sprightly man was reading an evening paper. 
He flung it at Bell’s head. “There you are. Six- 
inch headlines. ‘Famous Actress Vanishes.’ And 
now I do hope we shan’t be long. I wonder how 
she’ll manage her resurrection. Was she kidnapped 
by a Bolshevik submarine? U-boat in Boulter’s 
Lock. That would be a good stunt. And rescued by 
an aeroplane. She might come down on the course 
at Ascot.” 

“He can’t take her seriously, Bell,” said Reggie. 
“It’s the other one who has his heart. Who ever 
loved that loved not at first sight? She captured 
him at a glance.” 

Bell was shocked and bewildered. “What the 
deuce do you mean?” said Lomas. 

“Lady Macbeth by the river. You know how she 
fascinated you.” 

“Rose Darcourt?” Lomas cried. “Good Gad!” 

“The morning after Sylvia Sheridan vanished, 
Rose Darcourt was looking unwell by the river and 
Sylvia Sheridan’s bag was found in the river just 
below Rose Darcourt’s house. Now the manager 
and the playwright tell us Rose has been trying to 


THE LEADING LADY 


189 

get the part which was earmarked for Sylvia, and 
Sylvia was cross about it. Since Sylvia vanished 
Rose has pitched in a letter to say she wouldn’t look 
at the part or the play. Consider your verdict.” 

“There it is, sir, and an ugly business,” said Bell 
with a certain satisfaction. “These stage folk, they’re 
not wholesome.” 

“My dear old Bell,” Reggie chuckled. 

“Good Gad!” said Lomas, and burst out laugh¬ 
ing. “But it’s preposterous. It’s a novelette. The 
two leading ladies quarrel—and they meet by moon¬ 
light alone on the banks of the murmuring stream— 
and pull caps—and what happened next ? Did Rose 
pitch Sylvia into the dark and deadly water or Sylvia 
commit suicide in her anguish? Damme, Bell, you’d 
better make a film of it.” 

“I don’t know what you make of it, sir,” said Bell 
with stolid indignation. “But I’ve advised the local 
people to drag the river. And I suggest it’s time we 
had a man or two looking after this Miss Darcourt.” 

“Good Gad!” said Lomas again. “And what do 
you suggest, Fortune? Do you want to arrest her 
and put her on the rack? Or will it be enough to 
examine her body for Sylvia’s finger-prints? If we 
are to make fools of ourselves, let’s do it hand¬ 
somely.” 

“It seems to me we look fools enough as it is,” 
Bell growled. 

“This is a very painful scene,” Reggie said gently. 


190 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“Your little hands were never made to scratch each 
other’s eyes.” 

“What do you want to do?” Lomas turned on 
him. 

“Well, it’s not much in my way. I like a corpse 
and you haven’t a corpse for me. And I don’t feel 
that I know these good people. They seem muddled 
to me. It’s all muddled. I fancy they don’t know 
where they are. And there’s something we haven’t 
got, Lomas old thing. I should look about.” 

“I’m going to look about,” said Lomas with deci¬ 
sion. “But I’m going to look for Sylvia Sheridan’s 
friends—not her wicked rivals. I resent being used 
as an actress’s advertisement.” 

Reggie shook his head. “You will be so respect¬ 
able, Lomas my child. It hampers you.” 

“Well, go and drag the river,” said Lomas with a 
shrug, “and see who finds her first.” 

Mr. Fortune, who has a gentle nature, does not 
like people to be cross to him. This was his defence 
when Lomas subsequently complained of his inde¬ 
pendent action. He went to lunch and afterwards 
returned to his house by the river. 

Swaying in a hammock under the syringa he con¬ 
sidered the Sheridan case without prejudice, and 
drowsily came to the conclusion that he believed in 
nothing and nobody. He was not satisfied with the 
bag, he was not satisfied with the pallid woe of Rose 
Darcourt, he was not satisfied with the manager and 


THE LEADING LADY 


191 

the playwright, he was by no means satisfied with 
the flippancy of Lomas and the grim zeal of Bell. 
It appeared to him that all were unreasonable. He 
worked upon his memories of Rose Darcourt and 
Sylvia Sheridan and found no help therein. The 
two ladies, though competent upon the stage and at 
times agreeable, were to him commonplace. And 
whatever the case was, it was not that. He could 
not relate them to the floating bag, and the story of 
jealousy and the disappearance. “This thing’s all 
out of joint,” he sighed, “and I don’t think the airy 
Lomas or the gloomy Bell is the man to put it right. 
Why will people have theories? And at their time 
of life too! It’s not decent.” He rang (in his 
immoral garden you can ring from the pergola and 
ring from the hammocks and the lawn) for his 
chauffeur and factotum, Sam. 

Mr. Samuel Smith was bom a small and perky 
Cockney. He is, according to Reggie, a middle-class 
chauffeur but otherwise a lad of parts, having a 
peculiarly neat hand with photography and wine. 
But a capacity for being all things to all men was 
what first recommended him. “Sam,” said Mr. 
Fortune, “do you go much into society?” 

“Meaning the locals, sir?” 

“That was the idea.” 

“Well, sir, they’re not brainy. Too much o’ the 
nouveau riche” 

“It’s a hard world, Sam. I want to know about 


192 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

Miss Darcourt’s servants. I wouldn’t mind know¬ 
ing about Miss Sheridan’s servants. They ought to 
be talking things over. Somebody may be saying 
something interesting—or doing something.” 

“I’ve got it, sir. Can do.” 

Mr. Fortune sighed happily and went to sleep. 

For the next few days he was occupied with a 
number of new roses which chose to come into flower 
together. It was reported among his servants that 
Mr. Fortune sat by these bushes and held their hands. 
And meanwhile the papers gave much space to Miss 
Sylvia Sheridan, describing in vivid detail how the 
river was being dragged for her, and how her corpse 
had been discovered at Bradford and how she had 
been arrested while bathing (mixed) at Ilfracombe 
and seen on a flapper’s bracket in Hampstead. 

Mr. Fortune, engaged upon minute comparison of 
the shades of tawny red in five different but exquisite 
roses, was disturbed by Superintendent Bell. He 
looked up at that square and gloomy visage and 
shook his head. “You disturb me. I have my own 
troubles, Bell. Darlings, aren’t they?” He made 
a caressing gesture over his roses. “But I can’t 
make up my mind which is the one I really love. 
Go away, Bell. Your complexion annoys them.” 

“We haven’t found her, sir,” said Bell heavily. 
“She’s not in the river.” Reggie dropped into a 
long chair and, watching him with dreamy eyes, filled 
a pipe. Bell glowered. “I thought you were going 
to say, T told you so.’ ” 


THE LEADING LADY 


193 

Reggie smiled. “I don’t remember that I told 
you anything.” 

'That was about the size of it, sir,” Bell re¬ 
proached him. 

“Well, I thought it was possible the body was in 
the river. But not probable.” 

“Nothing’s probable that I can see. Roses are a 
bit simpler, aren’t they, sir?” 

“Simpler!” Reggie cried. “You’re no gardener. 
You should take it up, Bell. It develops the finer 
feelings. Now, don’t be cross again. I can’t bear it. 
I haven’t forgotten your horrible case. Nothing’s 
probable, as you say. But one or two things are 
certain all the same. Sylvia Sheridan’s servants 
have nothing up their sleeves. They’re as lost as 
you are. They are being quite natural. But Rose 
Darcourt has a chauffeur who interests me. He is a 
convivial animal and his pub is the ‘Dog and Duck.’ 
But he hasn’t been at the ‘Dog and Duck’ since 
Sylvia vanished. The ‘Dog and Duck’ is surprised 
at him. Also he has been hanging about Sylvia’s 
house. He has suddenly begun an affair with her 
parlour-maid. He seems to have a deuce of a lot of 
time on his hands. Rose Darcourt don’t show. 
She’s reported ill. And the reputation of the chauf¬ 
feur is that he’s always been very free and easy with 
his mistress.” 

Bell grunted and meditated and Reggie pushed a 
cigar-case across to help his meditations. “Well, 
sir, it sounds queer as you put it. But it might be ex- 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


194 

plained easy. And that’s what Mr. Lomas says about 
the whole case. Maybe he’s right.” The thought 
plunged the Superintendent into deeper gloom. 

“What a horrible idea,” said Reggie. “My dear 
fellow, don’t be so despondent. I’ve been waiting 
for you to take me to the parlour-maid. I want 
a chaperon.” 

Inspector Oxtoby in plain clothes, Superintendent 
Bell in clothes still plainer and Mr. Fortune in flan¬ 
nels conducted an examination of that frightened 
damsel, who was by turns impudent and plaintive, 
till soothed by Mr. Fortune’s benignity. It then 
emerged that she was not walking out with Mr. 
Loveday the chauffeur: nothing of the kind: only 
Mr. Loveday had been attentive. 

“And very natural, too,” Reggie murmured. 
“But why has he only just begun?” 

The parlour-maid was startled. They had had a 
many fellows round the house since mistress went 
off. She smiled. It was implied that others beside 
the chauffeur had remarked her charms. 

“And Mr. Loveday never came before? Does he 
ask after your mistress?” 

“Well, of course he always wants to know if she’s 
been heard of. It’s only civil, sir.” She stopped 
and stared at Reggie. “I suppose he does talk a 
deal about the mistress,” she said slowly. 

“When he ought to be talking about you,” Reggie 
murmured. 


THE LEADING LADY 


195 

The parlour-maid looked frightened. “But it’s 
as if he was always expecting some news of her/' 
she protested. 

“Oh, is it!” said Inspector Oxtoby, and Reggie 
frowned at him. 

“Yes, it is!” she cried. “And I don’t care what 
you say. And a good mistress she was”—she began 
to weep again, and was incoherent. 

“I’m sure she was,” Reggie said, “and you’re 
fond of her. That’s why we’re here, you know. 
You want to help her, don’t you? When was Mr. 
Loveday going to meet you again?” 

Through sobs it was stated that Mr. Loveday had 
said he would be by the little gate at his usual time 
that night. 

“Well, I don’t want you to see him, Gladys,” said 
Reggie gently. “You’re to stay indoors like a good 
girl. Don’t say anything to anybody and you’ll be 
all right.” 

On that they left her, and Reggie, taking Bell’s 
arm as they crossed the garden, murmured, “I like 
Gladys. She’s a pleasant shape. This job’s open¬ 
ing out, Bell, isn’t it?” 

“It beats me,” said Bell. “What’s the fellow 
after?” 

“He knows something,” said Oxtoby. 

“And he’s not quite sure what he knows,” said 
Reggie. “Well, well. An early dinner is indicated. 
It’s a hard world. Come and dine with me.” 


196 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

That night as it grew dark the chauffeur stood by 
the little gate of Sylvia Sheridan’s garden, an object 
of interest to three men behind a laurel hedge. He 
waited some time in vain. He lit a cigarette and 
exhibited for a moment a large flat face. He waited 
longer, opened the gate and approached the back of 
the house. 

“Better take him now,” said Reggie. “Loitering 
with intent. I’ll go down to the station.” 

Inspector Oxtoby, with Bell in support, closed 
upon the man in the kitchen garden. 

In the little office at Stanton police-station Albert 
Edward Loveday was charged with loitering about 
Miss Sheridan’s house with intent to commit a 
felony. He was loudly indignant, protesting that 
he had only gone to see his girl. He was told that 
he could say all that to the magistrates, and was 
removed still noisy. 

Mr. Fortune came out of the shadow. “I don’t 
take to Albert Edward,” he said. “I fear he’s a bit 
of a bully.” 

Bell nodded. “That’s his measure, sir. A chap 
generally shows what he’s made of when you get him 
in the charge room. I never could understand that. 
You’d think any fellow with a head on him would 
take care to hide what sort he is here. But they 
don’t seem as if they could help themselves.” 

“Most of the fellows you get in the charge room 


THE LEADING LADY 197 

haven’t heads. I doubt if Albert Edward has. He 
looks as if he hadn’t thought things out.” 

Inspector Oxtoby came back in a hurry. “My 
oath, Mr. Fortune, you’ve put us on the right man,” 
he said. “Look what the beggar had on him.” It 
was a small gold cigarette-case. It bore the mono¬ 
gram S.S., and inside was engraved “Sylvia from 
Bingo.” 

“That’s done him in,” said Bell. “Any explana¬ 
tion?” 

“He wouldn’t say a word. Barring that he cursed 
freely. No, Mr. Albert Edward Loveday wants to 
see his solicitor. He knows something.” 

“Yes. Yes, I wonder what it is?” Reggie mur¬ 
mured. 

“He had some pawn-tickets for jewellery too. 
Pretty heavy stuff. We’ll have to follow that up. 
And a hundred and fifty quid—some clean notes, 
some deuced dirty.” 

Bell laughed grimly. “He’s done himself proud, 
hasn’t he?” 

“Some clean, some dirty,” Reggie repeated. “He 
got the dirty ones from the pawnbroker. Where did 
he get the clean ones ? Still several unknown quan¬ 
tities in the equation.” 

“How’s that, sir?” said Inspector Oxtoby. 

“Well, there’s the body, for instance,” said Reggie 
mildly. “We lack the body. You know, I think 


198 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

we might ask Miss Darcourt to say a few words. 
Send a man up in a car to tell her she’s wanted at 
the police-station, because her chauffeur has been 
arrested. I should think she’ll come.” 

“That’s the stuff!” Inspector Oxtoby chuckled, 
and set about it. 

“You always had a notion she knew something, 
sir,” said Bell reverently. 

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. 

She did come. The little room seemed suddenly 
crowded, so large was the gold pattern on her black 
cloak, so complex her sinuous movements, as she 
glided in and sat down. She smiled at them, and 
certainly she had been handsome. From a white 
face dark eyes glittered, very big eyes, all pupil. 
“Oh, my aunt,” said Reggie to himself, “drugged.” 

“Miss Rose Darcourt?” Inspector Oxtoby’s pen 
scratched. “Thank you, madam. Your chauffeur 
Albert Edward Loveday (that’s right?) has been 
arrested loitering about Miss Sheridan’s house. He 
was found in possession of Miss Sheridan’s gold 
cigarette-case. Can you explain that?” 

“I? Why should I explain it? I know nothing 
about it.” 

“The man is in your service, madam.” 

“Yes, and he is a very good chauffeur. What 
then? Why should you arrest him?” She talked 
very fast. “I don’t understand it at all. I don’t 
understand what you want me to say.” 


•THE LEADING LADY 


199 

“Only the truth,” said Reggie gently out of the 
shadow. 

“What do you mean by the truth? I know noth¬ 
ing about what he had. I can’t imagine, I can’t 
conceive”—her voice went up high—“how he could 
have Miss Sheridan’s cigarette-case. If he really 
had.” 

“Oh, he had it all right,” said Inspector Oxtoby. 

“Why, then perhaps she gave it him.” She 
laughed so suddenly that the men looked at each 
other. “Have you asked him? What did he say? 
I know nothing about Miss Sheridan.” 

“You can tell us nothing?” said Reggie. 

“What should I tell you?” she cried. 

There was silence but for the scratching of the 
Inspector’s pen. “Very good, madam,” he said. 
“You have no explanation. I had better tell you 
the case will go into court. Thank you for coming. 
Would you like to have the car back?” 

“What has Loveday said?” She leaned forward. 

“He’s asked for his solicitor, .madam. That’s 
all.” 

“What is this charge, then?” 

The Inspector smiled. “That’s as may be, 
madam.” 

“Can I see him?” 

“Not alone, I’m afraid, ma’am,” said Bell. 

“What?” she cried. “What do you mean?” 

“The car’ll take you back, ma’am.” 


200 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

She stared at him a long minute. “The car?” 
she started up. “I don’t need your car. I’ll not 
have it. I can go, can I?” she laughed. 

Bell opened the door. “Phew!” he puffed as he 
closed it. “She looked murder, didn’t she?” 

“Nice young woman for a quiet tea-party,” 
Reggie murmured. “I wonder. I wonder. I think 
I’ll use that car.” 

As it drew out upon the bridge he saw the tall 
shape of Miss Darcourt ahead. She was going 
slowly. She stopped. She glanced behind her at 
the lights of the car. She climbed the parapet and 
was gone. 

“Oh, damn!” said Mr. Fortune. “Stop the bus.” 
He sprang out, looked down for a moment at the 
foam and the eddies and dived after her. 

Some minutes afterwards he arrived at the bank 
with Miss Darcourt in tow and waddled out, drag¬ 
ging her after him without delicacy and swearing in 
gasps. She was in no case to protest. She did not 
hear. Mr. Fortune rolled her over and knelt beside 
her. 

“What’ll I do, sir? Can’t I do something?” cried 
the chauffeur. 

“Police-station,” Reggie panted. “Bring down 
the Inspector or the Superintendent. Quick! Damn 
quick!” And he wrought with Miss Darcourt’s 
body. . . . 

He looked up at the large shape of Superintendent 
Bell. “Suicide, sir?” 


THE LEADING LADY 


201 


“Attempted suicide. She’ll do, I think. Wrap 
her in every dam’ thing you’ve got and take her to 
hospital quick.” 

“I know this game, sir,” Bell said, and stooped 
and gathered the woman up : “you run along home.” 

“Run!” said Reggie. “My only aunt.” 

In the morning when he rang for his letters, 
“Superintendent Bell called, sir,” said the maid. 
“About eight it was. He said I wasn’t to waken 
you. He only wanted to tell you she was going on 
all right. And there’s a message by telephone from 
Mr. Lomas. He says you should be at Paddington 
by twelve, car will meet you, very urgent. And to 
tell you he has the body.” 

“Oh, my Lord!” said Reggie. He sprang out of 
bed. Superintendent Bell was rung up and told to 
commit himself to nothing over Albert Edward 
Loveday and his mistress. 

“Remanded for inquiries—tihat’ll do for him, 
sir,” said Bell’s voice. “And she can wait. Hope 
you’re all right, Mr. Fortune.” 

“I’m suffering from shock, Bell. Mr. Lomas is 
shocking me. He’s begun to sit up and take notice.” 
Inadequately fed and melancholy, Mr. Fortune was 
borne into Paddington by a quarter-past twelve. 
He there beheld Lomas sitting in Lomas’s car and 
regarding him with a satirical eye. Mr. Fortune 
entered the car in dignity and silence. 

“My dear fellow, I hate to disappoint you,” 
Lomas smiled. “You’ve done wonderfully well. 


202 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


Arrested a chauffeur, driven a lady to suicide— 
admirable. It is really your masterpiece. Art for 
art’s sake in the grand style. You must find it hor¬ 
ribly disappointing to act with a dull fellow like me.” 

“I do,” said Mr. Fortune. 

Lomas chuckled. “I know, I know. I can’t help 
seeing it. And really I hate to spoil your work. 
But the plain fact is I’ve got the body.” 

“Well, well,” said Mr. Fortune. 

“And unfortunately—I really do sympathize with 
you—it isn’t dead.” 

“When did I say it was ?” said Mr Fortune. “I 
said you hadn’t a corpse for me—and you haven’t 
got one now. I said it was all muddled—and so it 
is, a dam’ muddle.” 

“Don’t you want to know why the fair Sylvia 
left home?” 

“Yes. Do you know, Lomas?” 

“She’s gone off with a man, my dear fellow,” 
Lomas laughed. 

“Well, well,” said Reggie mildly. “And that’s 
why the Darcourt’s chauffeur had her cigarette-case 
in his pocket! And that’s why the Darcourt jumped 
into the river when we asked her to explain! You 
make it all so clear, Lomas.” 

“Theft, I suppose, and fright.” Lomas shrugged. 
“But we’ll ask Sylvia.” 

“Where is she?” 

“I had information of some one like her from a 


THE LEADING LADY 


203 


little place in the wilds of Suffolk. I sent a fellow 
down and he has no doubt it’s the lady. She’s been 
living there since she vanished, with a man.” 

“What man?” 

“Not identified. Smith by name,” said Lomas 
curtly. “You’d better ask her yourself, Fortune.” 

“Yes. There’s quite a lot of things I’d like to ask 
her,” said Reggie, and conversation languished. 
Even the elaborate lunch which Reggie insisted on 
eating in Colchester did not revive it, for Lomas was 
fretful at the delay. So at last, with Reggie som¬ 
nolent and Lomas feverish, the car drew up at the 
ancient inn of the village of Baldon. 

A young fellow who was drinking ginger-beer in 
the porch looked up and came to meet them. “She’s 
done a bunk, sir,” he said in a low voice. “She 
and her Mr. Smith went off half an hour ago. Some 
luggage in the car. Took the London road.” 

“My poor Lomas!” Reggie chuckled. 

“Damme, we must have passed them on the road,” 
Lomas cried. “Any idea why she went, Blakiston?” 

“No, sir. The man went into Ipswich in their car 
this morning. Soon after he came back, they bolted 
together. I couldn’t do anything, you know, sir.” 

“You’re sure Mrs. Smith is Miss Sheridan?” 

“I’d swear to her, sir.” 

“It’s damned awkward,” Lomas frowned. “Sorry, 
Fortune. We’d better be off back.” 

“I want my tea,” said Reggie firmly, and got out: 


204 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


and vainly Lomas followed to protest that after the 
Colchester lunch he could want no more to eat for 
twenty-four hours. He was already negotiating for 
cream. “If it hadn’t been for your confounded 
lunch we should have caught her,” Lomas grumbled. 
“Now she’s off into the blue again.” 

Reggie fell into the window seat and took up the 
local paper. “And where is he that knows?” he 
murmured. “From the great deep to the great deep 
she goes. But why? Assumin’ for the sake of 
argument that she is our leading lady, why does she 
make this hurried exit?” 

“How the devil should I know?” 

Reggie smiled at him over the top of the papers. 
“This is a very interestin’ journal,” he remarked. 
“Do you know what it is, Lomas ? It’s the Ipswich 
evening paper with the 2.30 winner. Were you 
backing anything? No? Well, well. Not a race 
for a careful man. I read also that Miss Darcourt’s 
chauffeur was brought up before the Stanton magis¬ 
trates this morning and Miss Darcourt jumped into 
the river last night. It makes quite a lot of head¬ 
lines. The Press is a great power, Lomas.” 

Lomas damned the Press. 

“You’re so old-fashioned,” Reggie said sadly. 
“My child, don’t you see? Mr. Smith went to 
Ipswich, Mr. Smith read the early evening paper and 
hustled back to tell Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Smith felt 
that duty called her. Assuming that Mrs. Smith is 


THE LEADING LADY 


205 

our Sylvia, where would it call her ? Back to Stan¬ 
ton, to clear up the mess.” 

“I suppose so,” said Lomas drearily. “She can 
go to the devil for me.” 

“My dear chap, you do want your tea,” said 
Reggie. Then Lomas swore. 

It was late that night when a dusty car driven by 
Mr. Fortune approached the lights of Stanton. Mr. 
Fortune turned away from the bridge down a leafy 
byway and drew up with a jerk. Another car was 
standing by Miss Sheridan’s gate. The man in it 
turned to stare. Reggie was already at his side. 
“Mr. Smith, I presume?” he said. 

“Who the devil are you?” said a voice that seemed 
to him familiar. 

The night was then rent by a scream, which re¬ 
solved itself into a cry of “Thieves! Help, help! 
Police!” It came from the house. 

Reggie made for the door and banged upon it. It 
was opened by an oldish woman in disarray. “We’ve 
got burglars,” she cried. “Come in, sir, come in.” 

“Rather,” said Mr. Fortune. “Where are they?” 

“On the stair, sir. I hit him. I know I hit one. 
It give me such a turn.” 

Reggie ran upstairs. The light was on in the 
hall, but on the landing, in the shadow, he stumbled 
over something soft. He ran his hand along the 
wall for a switch and found it. What he saw was 
Sylvia Sheridan lying with blood upon her face. 


206 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“It’s all right. You’ve only knocked out your 
mistress,” he called over the stairs. 

“Oh, my God!” the housekeeper gasped. “The 
poker on her poor head! Oh, sir, she’s not dead, 
is she?” 

“Not a bit. Come along, where’s her room?” 
Reggie picked her up. 

The man from the car was at his elbow. “Thank 
you, I’ll do that,” he said. 

“Why, it’s Mr. Woodcote. Fancy that!” Reggie 
smiled. “But why should the dramatist carry the 
leading lady?” 

“I’m her husband,” said Woodcote fiercely. “Any 
objection, Mr. Fortune?” 

“Oh, no, Mr. Smith. I beg pardon, Mr. Wood¬ 
cote. But you’ll want me, you know. If it’s only 
to sew her up.” 

He bore the lady off to her bedroom. 

* * * sK Hi 

The case ended as it began, with a morning voyage 
in a punt. Lomas brought that craft into the land¬ 
ing-stage and embarked Reggie, who laid himself 
down on the cushions elaborately and sighed. “My 
dear fellow, I know you were always a lady’s man,” 
Lomas remonstrated. “But you’re overdoing it. 
You’re enfeebled. You wilt.” 

Reggie moaned gently. “I know it. I feel like a 
curate, Lomas. They coo over me. It’s weakening 
to the intellect. Rose holds my hand and tells me 


THE LEADING LADY 


207 

she’s sorry she was so naughty, and Sylvia looks 
tenderly from her unbandaged eye and says she’ll 
never do it again.” 

“Have you got anything rational out of them?” 

“I have it all. It’s quite simple. Sylvia heard 
that Rose was trying to do her out of the part. She 
was pained. She went round in a hurry to talk to 
Rose. In the garden she saw Albert Edward, the 
chauffeur, who told her that Rose was on the boat¬ 
house balcony, her favourite place on a fine evening. 
Sylvia went there straight. Hence none of the 
servants but Albert Edward knew that Sylvia had 
called that night. Sylvia and Rose had words. 
Sylvia says she offered Rose quite a good minor 
part. Rose says Sylvia insulted her. I fear that 
Rose tried to slap her face. Anyway, Sylvia tum¬ 
bled down the boat-house steps and there was a 
splash. Rose heard it and thought Sylvia had gone 
in and was delighted. Albert Edward heard it as 
he had heard the row, and thought something could 
be done about it. But he saw Sylvia rush off rather 
draggled round the skirts, and knew she wasn’t 
drowned. Rose didn’t take the trouble to see Sylvia 
scramble out. She was too happy. Sylvia was 
annoyed, but she has an ingenious mind. It 
occurred to her that if she did a disappearance Rose 
would get the wind up badly and it would be a howl¬ 
ing advertisement for Miss Sylvia Sheridan and 
Woodcote’s new play. Yes, Lomas dear, you were 


208 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


quite right. Only Bell was too. Sylvia scurried off 
to London and let herself into her flat and telephoned 
to Woodcote and told him all about it. He was 
badly gone on Sylvia before. He gave way to his 
emotions and those two geese arranged their elope¬ 
ment that night. She went off at break of day and 
he got a special licence. Meanwhile Albert Edward 
was getting busy. He collected the cigarette-case 
from the boat-house first thing in the morning, he 
found out Sylvia hadn’t gone home and he started 
blackmailing Rose. That was why we saw her look¬ 
ing desperate. She got more and more funky, she 
paid that bright lad all the money she could spare 
(the clean notes) and most of her jewellery (the 
pawn-tickets). The only thing that worried Albert 
Edward was when Sylvia would turn up again. 
Hence that interest in the parlour-maid which gave 
him away. Poor Rose tried to drown her sorrows 
in morphia, and when she found Albert Edward 
was in the cells, she wanted to go under quiet and 
quick.” 

“I have a mild, manly longing to smack Sylvia,” 
said Lomas, 

“Well, well. The housekeeper did that. With a 
poker,” Reggie murmured. “Life is quite just to 
the wicked. But wearing to the virtuous. I am 
much worn, Lomas, I want my lunch.” 


CASE VII 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 

O NCE upon a time a number of men in a club 
discussed how Mr. Reginald Fortune came 
to be the expert adviser of the Home Office 
upon crime. The doctors admitted that though he 
is a competent surgeon, pathologist and what not, 
he never showed international form. There was a 
Fellow of the Royal Society who urged that Fortune 
knew more about natural science than most school¬ 
boys, politicians and civil servants. An artist said 
he had been told Fortune understood business, and 
his banker believed Fortune was a judge of old fur¬ 
niture. But they all agreed that he is a jolly good 
fellow. Which means, being interpreted, he can be 
all things to all men. 

Mr. Fortune himself is convinced that he was 
meant by Providence to be a general practitioner: to 
attend to my lumbago and your daughter’s measles. 
He has been heard to complain of the chance that has 
made him, knowing something of everything, noth¬ 
ing completely, into a specialist. His only qualifica¬ 
tion, he will tell you, is that he doesn’t get muddled. 
209 


210 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

There you have it, then. He is singularly sensi¬ 
tive to people. “Very odd how he knows men,” 
said Superintendent Bell reverently. “As if he had 
an extra sense to tell him of people’s souls, like 
smells or colours.” And he has a clear head. He is 
never confused about what is important and what 
isn’t, and he has never been known to hesitate in 
doing what is necessary. 

Consider his dealing with the affair of the un¬ 
known murderer. 

There was not much interesting crime that Christ¬ 
mas. The singular case of Sir Humphrey Bigod, 
who was found dead in a chalkpit on the eve of his 
marriage, therefore obtained a lot of space in the 
papers, which kept it up, even after the coroner’s 
jury had declared for death by misadventure, with 
irrelevant inventions and bloodthirsty hints of mur¬ 
der and tales of clues. This did not disturb the 
peace of the scientific adviser to the Criminal In¬ 
vestigation Department, who knew that the lad was 
killed by a fall and that there was no means of know¬ 
ing any more. Mr. Fortune was much occupied in 
being happy, for after long endeavour he had en¬ 
gaged Joan Amber to marry him. The lady has said 
the endeavour was hers, but I am not now telling 
that story. Just after Christmas she took him to 
the children’s party at the Home of Help. 

It is an old-fashioned orphanage, a huge barrack 
of a building, but homely and kind. Time out of 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 211 


mind people of all sorts, with old titles and new, with 
money and with brains, have been the friends of its 
children. When Miss Amber brought Reggie For¬ 
tune under the flags and the strings of paper roses 
into its hall, which was as noisy as the parrot house, 
he gasped slightly. “Be brave, child,” she said. 
“This is quiet to what it will be after tea. And 
cool. You will be much hotter. You don’t know 
how hot you’ll be.” 

“Woman, you have deceived me,” said Mr. For¬ 
tune bitterly. “I thought philanthropists were re¬ 
spectable.” 

“Yes, dear. Don’t be frightened. You’re only a 
philanthropist for the afternoon.” 

“I ask you. Is that Crab Warnham?” 

“Of course it’s Captain Warnham.” Miss Amber 
smiled beautifully at a gaunt man with a face like an 
old jockey. He flushed as he leered back. “Do 
you know his wife? She’s rather precious.” 

“Poor woman. He doesn’t look comfortable 
here, does he? The last time I saw Crab Warnham 
was in a place that’s several kinds of hell in Berlin. 
He was quite at home there.” 

“Forget it,” said Miss Amber gently. “You 
will when you meet his wife. And their boy’s a 
darling.” 

“His boy?” Reggie was startled. 

“Oh, no. She was a widow. He worships her 
and the child.” 


212 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

Reggie said nothing. It appeared to him that 
Captain Warnham, for a man who worshipped his 
wife, had a hungry eye on women. And the next 
moment Captain Warnham was called to attention. 
A small woman, still pretty though earnest, talked to 
him like a mother or a commanding officer. He was 
embarrassed, and when she had done with him he 
fled. 

The small woman, who was austerely but daintly 
clad in black with some white at the neck, continued 
to flit among the company, finding everyone a job 
of work. “She says to one, Go, and he goeth, and 
to another, Come, and he cometh. And who is 
she, Joan?” 

“Lady Chantry,” said Miss Amber. “She’s 
providence here, you know.” 

And Lady Chantry was upon them. Reggie found 
himself lobking down into a pair of uncommonly 
bright eyes and wondering what it felt like to be as 
strenuous as the little woman who was congratulat¬ 
ing him on Joan, thanking him for being there and 
arranging his afternoon for him all in one breath. 
He had never heard anyone talk so fast. In a 
condition of stupor he saw Joan reft from him to 
tell the story of Cinderella to magic lantern pictures 
in one dormitory, while he was led to another to help 
in a scratch concert. And as the door closed on 
him he heard the swift clear voice of Lady Chantry 
exhorting staff' and visitors to play round games. 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 213 

He suffered. People who had no voices sang 
showy songs, people who had too much voice sang 
ragtime to those solemn, respectful children. In 
pity for the children and himself he set up as a 
conjuror, and the dormitory was growing merry 
when a shriek cut into his patter. “That’s only 
my bones creaking,” he went on quickly, for the 
children were frightened; “they always do that 
when I put the knife in at the ear and take it out of 
my hind leg. So. But it doesn’t hurt. As the 
motor-car said when it ran over the policeman’s 
feet. All done by kindness. Come here, Jenny 
Wren. You mustn’t use your nose as a money 
box.” A small person submitted to have pennies 
taken out of her face. 

The door opened and a pallid nurse said faintly: 
“The doctor. Are you the doctor?” 

“Of course,” said Reggie. “One moment, people. 
Mr. Punch has fallen over the baby. It always 
hurts him. In the hump. Are we down-hearted? 

No. Pack up your troubles in the old kit bag-” 

He went out to a joyful roar of that lyric. “What’s 
the trouble?” The nurse was shaking. 

“In there, sir—she’s up there.” 

Reggie went up the stairs in quick time. The 
door of a little sitting-room stood open. Inside it 
people were staring at a woman who sat at her desk. 
Her dress was dark and wet. Her head lolled for¬ 
ward. A deep gash ran across her throat. 



214 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“Yes. There’s too many of us here,” he said, 
and waved the spectators away. One lingered, an 
old woman, large and imposing, and announced that 
she was the matron. Reggie shut the door and came 
back to the body in the chair. He held the limp 
hands a moment, he lifted the head and looked close 
into the flaccid face. “When was she found ? When 
I heard that scream? Yes.” He examined the 
floor. “Quite so.” He turned to the matron. 
“Well, well. Who is she?” 

“It’s our resident medical officer, Dr. Emily Hall. 
But Dr. Fortune, can’t you do anything?” 

“She’s gone,” said Reggie. 

“But this is terrible, doctor. What does it 
mean?” 

“Well, I don’t know what it means. Her throat 
was cut by a highly efficient knife, probably from 
behind. She lingered a little while quite helpless, 
and died. Not so very long ago. Who screamed?” 

“The nurse who found her. One of our own 
girls, Dr. Fortune, Edith Baker. She was always 
a favourite of poor Dr. Hall’s. She has been kept 
on here at Dr. Hall’s wish to train as a nurse. She 
was devoted to Dr. Hall. One of these girlish 
passions.” 

“And she came into the room and found—this— 
and screamed?” 

“So she tells me,” said the matron. 

“Well, well,” Reggie sighed. “Poor kiddies! 
And now you must send for the police.” 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 215 

“I have given instructions, Dr. Fortune,’’ said 
the matron with dignity. 

“And I think you ought to keep Edith Baker from 
talking about it.” Reggie opened the door. 

“Edith will not talk,” said the matron coldly. 
“She is a very reserved creature.” 

“Poor thing. But I’m afraid some of our vis¬ 
itors will. And they had better not, you know.” 
At last he got rid of the lady and turned the key in 
the lock and stood looking at it. “Yes, quite natu¬ 
ral, but very convenient,” said he, and turned away 
from it and contemplated a big easy chair. The 
loose cushion on the seat showed that somebody had 
been sitting in it, a fact not in itself remarkable. 
But there was a tiny smear of bipod on the arm 
still wet. He picked up the cushion. On the under 
side was a larger smear of blood. Mr. Fortune’s 
brow contracted. “The unknown murderer cuts her 
throat—comes over here—makes a mess on the 
chair—turns the cushion over—and sits down—to 
watch the woman die. This is rather diabolical.” 
He began to wander round the room. It offered him 
no other signs but some drops of blood on the 
hearthrug! and the hearth. He knelt down and 
peered into the fire, and with the tongs drew from 
it a thin piece of metal. It was a surgical knife. 
He looked at the dead woman. “From your hos¬ 
pital equipment, Dr. Hall. And Edith Baker is a 
nurse. And Edith Baker had ‘a girlish passion’ for 
you. I wonder.” 


216 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


Some one was trying the door. He unlocked it, 
to find an inspector of police. "I am Reginald 
Fortune,” he explained. “Here’s your case.” 

“I’ve heard of you, sir,” said the inspector rev¬ 
erently. “Bad business, isn’t it? I’m sure it’s 
very lucky you were here.” 

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. 

“Could it be suicide, sir?” 

Reggie shook his head. “I wish it could. Not a 
nice murder. Not at all a nice murder. By 
the way, there’s the knife. I picked it out of the 
fire.” 

“Doctor’s tool, isn’t it, sir? Have you got any 
theory about it?” Reggie shook his head. “There’s 
the girl who gave the alarm: she’s a nurse in the 
hospital, I’m told.” 

“I don’t know the girl,” said Reggie. “You’d 
better see what you make of the room. I shall be 
downstairs.” 

In the big hall the decorations and the Christmas 
tree with its ungiven presents glowed to emptiness 
and silence. Joan Amber came forward to meet 
him. He did not speak to her. He continued to 
stare at the ungiven presents on the Christmas tree. 
“What do you want to do?” she said at last. 

“This is the end of a perfect day,” said Mr. For¬ 
tune. “Poor kiddies.” 

“The matron packed them all off to their dormi¬ 
tories.” 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 217 

Mr. Fortune laughed. “Just as well to rub it in, 
isn’t it?” 

Miss Amber did not answer him for a moment. 
“Do you know, you look rather terrible?” she said, 
and indeed his normally plump, fresh-coloured, 
cheery face had a certain ferocity. 

“I feel like a fool, Joan. Where is everybody?” 

“She sent everbody away too.” 

“She would. Great organizer. No brain. My 
only aunt! A woman’s murdered and every stranger 
who was in the place is hustled off before the police 
get to work. This isn’t a crime, it’s a nightmare.” 

“Well, of course they were anxious to go.” 

“They would be.” 

“Reggie, who are you thinking of?” 

“I can’t think. There are no facts. Where’s 
this matron now?” 

The inspector came upon them as they were going 
to her room. “I’ve finished upstairs, sir. Not 
much for me, is there? Plenty downstairs, though. 
I reckon I’ll hear some queer stories before I’ve 
done. These homes are always full of gossip. 
People living too close together, wonderful what 

bad blood it makes. I-” He broke off and 

stared at Reggie. From the matron’s room came 
the sound of sobbing. He opened the door without 
a knock. 

The matron sat at her writing-table, coldly judi¬ 
cial. A girl in nurse’s uniform was crying on the 


218 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


bosom of Lady Chantry, who caressed her and mur¬ 
mured in her ear. 

“Sorry to interrupt, ma’am,” the inspector said, 
staring hard. 

“You don’t interrupt. This girl is Edith Baker, 
who seems to have been the last person who saw 
Dr. Hall alive and was certainly the first person who 
saw her dead.” 

“And who was very, very fond of her,” Lady 
Chantry said gently. “Weren’t you, dear?” 

“I’ll have to take her statement,” said the inspec¬ 
tor. But the girl was torn with sobbing. 

“Come, dear, come.” Lady Chantry strove with 
her. “The inspector only wants you to say how 
you left her and how you found her.” 

“Edith, you must control yourself.” The matron 
lifted her voice. 

“I hate you,” the girl cried, and tore herself away 
and rushed out of the room. 

“She’ll have to speak, you know, ma’am,” the 
inspector said. 

“I am very sorry to say she has always had a 
passionate temperament,” said the matron. 

“Poor child!” Lady Chantry rose. “She was 
so fond of the doctor, you see. I’ll go to her, 
matron, and see what I can do.” 

“Does anyone here know what the girl was up to 
this afternoon, ma’am?” said the inspector. 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 219 

“I will try to find out for you,” said the matron, 
and rang her bell. 

“Well, well,” said Reggie Fortune. “Every little 
helps. You might find out what all the other people 
were doing this afternoon.” 

The matron stared at him. “Surely you’re not 
thinking of the visitors, Mr. Fortune?” 

“I’m thinking of your children,” said Reggie, and 
she was the more amazed. “Not a nice murder, 
you know, not at all a nice murder.” 

And then he took Miss Amber home. She found 
him taciturn, which is his habit when he is angry. 
But she had never seen him angry before. She is a 
wise woman. When he was leaving her: “Do you 
know what it is about you, sir?” she said. “You’re 
always just right.” 

When the Hon. Sidney Lomas came to his room 
in Scotland Yard the next morning, Reggie Fortune 
was waiting for him. “My dear fellow!” he pro¬ 
tested. “What is this? You’re not really up, are 
you? It’s not eleven. You’re an hallucination.” 

“Zeal, all zeal, Lomas. The orphanage murder 
is my trouble.” 

“Have you come to give yourself up? I sus¬ 
pected you from the first, Fortune. Where is it?” 
He took a copy of the “Daily Wire” from the rack. 
“Yes. ‘Dr. Reginald Fortune, the eminent surgeon, 
was attending the function and was able to give the 


220 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

police a first-hand account of the crime. Dr. For¬ 
tune states that the weapon used was a surgical 
knife/ My dear fellow, the case looks black in¬ 
deed.” 

Reggie was not amused. “Yes. I also was 
present. And several others/’ he said. “Do you 
know anything about any of us?” 

Lomas put up his eyeglass. “There’s a certain 
bitterness about you, Fortune. This is unusual. 
What’s the matter?” 

“I don’t like this murder,” said Reggie. “It 
spoilt the children’s party.” 

“That would be a by-product,” Lomas agreed. 
“You’re getting very domestic in your emotions. 
Oh, I like it, my dear fellow. But it makes you a 
little irrelevant.” 

“Domestic be damned. I’m highly relevant. It 
spoilt the children’s party. Why did it happen at 
the children’s party? Lots of other nice days to 
kill the resident medical officer.” 

“You’re suggesting it was one of the visitors?” 

“No, no. It isn’t the only day visitors visit. 
I’m suggesting life is real, life is earnest—and 
rather diabolical sometimes.” 

“I’ll call for the reports,” Lomas said, and did so. 
“Good Gad! Reams! Barton’s put in some heavy 
work.” 

“I thought he would,” said Reggie, and went to 
read over Lomas’s shoulder. 

At the end Lomas lay back and looked up at him. 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 221 


‘Well? Barton’s put his money on this young 
nurse, Edith Baker.” 

“Yes. That’s the matron’s tip. I saw the 
matron. One of the world’s organizers, Lomas. A 
place for everything and everything in its place. 
And if you don’t fit, God help you. Edith Baker 
didn’t fit. Edith Baker has emotions. Therefore 
she does murders. Q.E.D.” 

“Well, the matron ought to know the girl.” 

“She ought,” Reggie agreed. “And our case is, 
gentlemen, that the matron who ought to know girls 
says Edith Baker isn’t a nice young person. Lomas 
dear, why do policemen always believe what they’re 
told? What the matron don’t like isn’t evidence.” 

“There is some evidence. The girl had one of 
these hysterical affections for the dead woman, 
passionately devoted and passionately jealous and so 
forth. The girl had access to the hospital instru¬ 
ments. All her time in the afternoon can’t be 
accounted for and she was the first to know of the 
murder.” 

“It’s not good enough, Lomas. Why did she 
give the alarm?” 

Lomas shrugged. “A murderer does now and 
then. Cunning or fright.” 

“And why did she wait for the children’s party 
to do the murder?” 

“Something may have happened there to rouse 
her jealousy.” 

“Something with one of the visitors?” Reggie 


222 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


suggested. "I wonder.” And then he laughed. 
“A party of the visitors went round the hospital, 
Lomas. They had access to the surgical instru¬ 
ments.” 

“And were suddenly seized with a desire for 
homicide? They also went to the gymnasium and 
the kitchen. Did any of them start boiling po¬ 
tatoes? My dear Fortune, you are not as plausible 
as usual.” 

“It isn’t plausible,” Reggie said. “I know that. 
It’s too dam’ wicked.” 

“Abnormal,” Lomas nodded. “Of course the 
essence of the thing is that it’s abnormal. Every 
once in a while we have these murders in an orphan¬ 
age or school or some place where women and chil¬ 
dren are herded together. Nine times out of ten 
they are cases of hysteria. Your young friend Miss 
Baker seems to be a highly hysterical subject.” 

“You know more than I do.” 

“Why, that’s in the evidence. And you saw her 
yourself half crazy with emotion after the murder.” 

“Good Lord!” said Reggie. “Lomas, old thing, 
you do run on. Pantin’ time toils after you in vain. 
That girl wasn’t crazy. She was the most natural 
of us all. You send a girl in her teens into the room 
where the woman she is keen on is sitting with her 
throat cut. She won’t talk to you like a little lady. 
The evidence! Why do you believe what people 
tell you about people? They’re always lying—by 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 223 

accident if not on purpose. This matron don’t like 
the girl because she worshipped the lady doctor. 
Therefore the girl is called abnormal and jealous. 
Did you ever hear of a girl in her teens worship¬ 
ping a teacher? It’s common form. Did you 
never hear of another teacher being vicious about it? 
That’s just as common.” 

“Do you mean the matron was jealous of them 
both?” 

Reggie shrugged. “It hits you in the eye.” 

“Good Gad!” said Lomas. “Do you suspect the 
matron ?” 

“I suspect the devil,” said Reggie gravely. 
“Lomas, my child, whoever did that murder cut 
the woman’s throat and then sat down in her easy 
chair and watched her die. I call that devilish.” 
And he told of the blood-stains and the turned 
cushions. 

“Good Gad,” said Lomas once more. “There’s 
some hate in that.” 

“Not a nice murder. Also it stopped the chil¬ 
dren’s party.” 

“You harp on that.” Lomas looked at him 
curiously. “Are you thinking of the visitors?” 

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “I wonder.” 

“Here’s the list,” Lomas said, and Reggie came 
slowly to look. “Sir George and Lady Bean, Lady 
Chantry, Mrs. Carroway”—he ran his pencil down 
—'“all well-known, blameless busybodies, full of 
good works. Nothing doing.” 


224 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“Crab Warnham,” said Reggie. 

“Oh, Warnham: his wife took him, I suppose. 
She’s a saint, and he eats out of her hand, they say. 
Well, he was a loose fish, of course, but murder! I 
don’t see Warnham at that.” 

“He has an eye for a woman.” 

“Still? I dare say. But good Gad, he can’t 
have known this lady doctor. Was she pretty?” 
Reggie nodded. “Well, we might look for a link 
between them Not likely, is it?” 

“We’re catching at straws,” said Reggie som¬ 
brely. 

Lomas pushed the papers away. “Confound it, 
it’s another case without evidence. I suppose it 
can’t be suicide like that Bigod affair?” 

Reggie, who was lighting a cigar, looked up and 
let the match bum his fingers. “Not suicide. No,” 
he said. “Was Bigod’s?” 

“Well, it was a deuced queer death by misadven¬ 
ture.” 

“As you say.” Reggie nodded and wandered 
dreamily out. 

This seems to have been the first time that anyone 
thought of comparing the Bigod case to the orphan¬ 
age murder. When the inquest on the lady doctor 
was held the police had no more evidence to pro¬ 
duce than you have heard, and the jury returned a 
verdict of murder by some person or persons un¬ 
known. Newspapers strove to enliven the dull calm 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 225 

of the holiday season by declaiming against the in¬ 
efficiency of a police force which allowed murderers 
to remain anonymous, and hashed up the Bigod 
case again to prove that the fall of Sir Humphrey 
Bigod into his chalkpit, though called accidental, was 
just as mysterious as the cut throat of Dr. Hall. 
And the Hon. Sidney Lomas cursed the man who 
invented printing. 

These assaults certainly did not disturb Reggie 
Fortune, who has never cared what people say of 
him. With the help of Joan Amber he found a 
quiet remote place for the unhappy girl suspected 
of the murder (Lady Chantry was prettily angry 
with Miss Amber about that, protesting that she 
wanted to look after Edith herself), and said he 
was only in the case as a philanthropist. After 
which he gave all his time to preparing his house 
and Miss Amber for married life. But the lady 
found him dreamy. 

It was in fact while he was showing her how the 
new colours in the drawing-room looked under the 
new lighting that Dr. Eden called him up. Dr. 
Eden has a general practice in Kensington. Dr. 
Eden wanted to consult him about a case: most 
urgent: 3 King William’s Walk. 

“May I take the car?” said Reggie to Joan. 
“He sounds rattled. You can go on home after¬ 
wards. It’s not far from you either. I wonder 
who lives at 3 King William’s Walk.” 


226 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


“But it’s Mrs. Warnham!” she cried. 

“Oh, my aunt!” said Reggie Fortune; and said 
no more. 

And Joan Amber did not call him out of his 
thoughts. She was as grave as he. Only when he 
was getting out of the car, “Be good to her, dear,” 
she said gently. He kissed the hand on his arm. 

The door was opened by a woman in evening- 
dress. “It is Mr. Fortune, isn’t it? Please come 
in. It’s so kind of you to come.” She turned to 
the maid in the background. “Tell Dr. Eden, 
Maggie. It’s my little boy—and we are so anxious.” 

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Warnham.” Reggie took 
her hand and found it cold. The face he remem¬ 
bered for its gentle calm was sternly set. “What is 
the trouble?” 

“Gerald went to a party this afternoon. He came 
home gloriously happy and went to bed. He didn’t 
go to sleep at once, he was rather excited, but he 
was quite well. Then he woke up crying with pain 
and was very sick. I sent for Dr. Eden. It isn’t 
like Gerald to cry, Mr. Fortune. And-” 

A hoarse voice said “Catherine, you oughtn’t to 
be out there in the cold.” Reggie saw the gaunt 
face of Captain Warnham looking round a door at 
at them. 

“What does it matter?” she cried. “Dr. Eden 
doesn’t want me to be with him, Mr. Fortune. He 
is still in pain. And I don’t think Dr. Eden knows.” 



THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 227 

Dr. Eden came down in time to hear that. A 
large young man, he stood over them looking very 
awkward and uncomfortable. 

“I’m sure Dr. Eden has done everything that can 
be done,” said Reggie gently. “I’ll go up, please.” 
And they left the mother to her husband, that 
flushed, gaunt face peering round the corner as they 
kept step on the stairs. 

“The child’s seven years old,” said Eden. 
“There’s no history of any gastric trouble. Rather 
a good digestion. And then this—out of the blue!” 

Reggie went into a nursery where a small boy lay 
huddled and restless with all the apparatus of sick¬ 
ness by his bed. He raised a pale face on which 
beads of sweat stood. 

“Hallo, Gerald,” Reggie said quietly. “Mother 
sent me up to make you all right again.” He took 
the child’s hand and felt for the pulse. “I’m Mr. 
Fortune, your fortune, good fortune.” The child 
tried to smile and Reggie’s hands moved over the 
uneasy body and all the while he murmured softly 
nonsense talk. . . . 

The child did not want him to go, but at last he 
went off with Eden into a corner of the room. 
“Quite right to send for me,” he said gravely, and 
Eden put his hand to his head. “I know. I know. 
It’s horrible when it’s a child. One of the irritant 
poisons. Probably arsenic. Have you given an 
emetic?” 


228 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

“He’s been very sick. And he’s so weak.” 

“I know. Have you got anything with you?” 

“I sent home. But I didn’t care to-” 

“I’ll do it. Sulphate of zinc. You go and send 
for a nurse. And find some safe milk. I wouldn’t 
use the household stuff.” 

“My God, Fortune! Surely it was at the 
party?” 

“Not the household stuff,” Reggie repeated, and 
he went back to the child. . . . 

It was many hours afterwards that he came softly 
downstairs. In the hall husband and wife met him. 
It seemed to him that it was the man who had been 
crying. “Are you going away?” Mrs. Warnham 
said. 

“There’s no more pain. He’s asleep.” 

Her eyes darkened. “You mean he’s—dead?” 
the man gasped. 

“I hope he’ll live longer than any of us, Captain 
Warnham. But no one must disturb him. The 
nurse will be watching, you know. And I’m sure 
we all want to sleep sound—don’t we?” He was 
.gone. But he stayed a moment on the doorstep. 
He heard emotions within. 

On the next afternoon Dr. Eden came into his 
laboratory at St. Saviour’s. “One moment. One 
moment.” Reggie was bent over a notebook. 
“When I go to hell they’ll set me doing sums.” He 



THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 229 

frowned at his figures. “The third time is lucky. 
That’s plausible if it isn’t right. Well, how’s our 
large patient?” 

“He’s doing well. Quite easy and cheerful.” 

Reggie stood up. “I think we might say, Thank 
God.” 

“Yes, rather. I thought he was gone last night, 
Fortune. He would have been without you. It 
was wonderful how he bucked up in your hands. 
You ought to have been a children’s specialist.” 

“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! I’m the 
kind of a fellow who would always ought to have 
been something else. And so I’m doing sums in a 
laboratory which God knows I’m not fit for.” 

“Have you found out what it was?” 

“Oh, arsenic, of course. Quite a fair dose he 
must have had. It’s queer how they always will 
use arsenic.” 

Eden stared at him. “What are we to do?” he 
said in a low voice. “Fortune, I suppose it couldn’t 
have been accidental?” 

“What is a child likely to eat in which he would 
find grains of accidental arsenic?” 

“Yes, but then- I mean, who could want to 

kill that child?” 

“That is the unknown quantity in the equation. 
But people do want to murder children, quite nice 
children.” 



230 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

Eden grew pale. “What do you mean? You 
know he’s not Warnham’s child. Warnham’s his 
step-father.” 

“Yes. Yes. Have you ever seen the two 
together?” 

Eden hesitated. “He—well he didn’t seem to 
take to Warnham. But I’d have sworn Wamham 
was fond of him.” 

“And that’s all quite natural, isn’t it? Well, 
well. I hope he’s in.” 

“What do you mean to do?” 

“Tell Mrs. Warnham—with her husband listen- 
ing. 

Dr. Eden followed him out like a man going to 
be hanged. 

Mrs. Warnham indeed met them in her hall. 
“Mr. Fortune”—she took his hand, she had won 
back her old calm, but her eyes grew dark as she 
looked at him—“Gerald has been asking for you. 
And I want to speak to you.” 

“I shall be glad to talk over the case with you and 
Captain Warnham,” said Reggie gravely. “I’ll see 
the small boy first, if you don’t mind.” And the 
small boy kept his Mr. Fortune a long time. 

Mrs. Warnham had her husband with her when 
the doctors came down. “I say, Fortune,” Captain 
Warnham started up, “awfully good of you to take 
so much trouble. I mean to say”—he cleared his 
throat—“I feel it, you know. How is the little 
beggar?” 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 231 

“There’s no reason why he shouldn’t do well,” 
Reggie said slowly. “But it’s a strange case, Cap¬ 
tain Warnham. Yes, a strange case. You may take 
it, there is no doubt the child was poisoned.” 

“Poisoned!” Warnham cried out in that queer 
hoarse voice. 

“You mean it was something Gerald shouldn’t 
have eaten?” Mrs. Warnham said gently. 

“It was arsenic, Captain Warnham. Not much 
more than an hour before the time he felt ill, perhaps 
less, he had swallowed enough arsenic to kill him.” 

“I say, are you certain of all that? I mean to 
say, no doubt about anything?” Warnham was 
flushed. “Arsenic—and the time—and the dose? 
It’s pretty thick, you know.” 

“There is no doubt. I have found arsenic. I can 
estimate the dose. And arsenic acts within that 
time.” 

“But I can’t believe it,” Mrs. Warnham said. “It 
would be too horribly cruel. Mr. Fortune, couldn’t 
it have been accident? Something in his food?” 

“It was certainly in his food or drink. But not 
accident, Mrs. Warnham. That is not possible.” 

“I say, let’s have it all out, Fortune,” Warnham 
growled. “Do you suspect anyone ?” 

“That’s rather for you, isn’t it?” said Reggie. 

“Who could want to poison Gerald?” Mrs. 
Warnham cried. 

“He says some one did,” Warnham growled. 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


232 

“When do you suppose he took the stuff, Fortune? 
At the party or after he came home?” 

“What did he have when he came home?” 
Warnham looked at his wife. “Only a little milk. 
He wouldn’t eat anything,” she said. “And I tasted 
his milk, I remember. It was quite nice.” 

“That points to the party,” Eden said. 

“But I can’t believe it. Who could want to 
poison Gerald?” 

“I’ve seen some of the people who were there,” 
Eden frowned. “I don’t believe there’s another 
child ill. Only this one of the whole party.” 

“Yes. Yes, A strange case,” said Reggie. “Was 
there anyone there with a grudge against you, Mrs. 
Warnham?” 

“I don’t believe there’s anyone with a grudge 
against me in the world.” 

“I don’t believe there is, Catherine,” her husband 
looked at her. “But damn it, Fortune found the stuff 
in the child. I say, Fortune, what do you advise?” 

“You’re sure of your own household? There’s 
nobody here jealous of the child?” 

Mrs. Warnham looked her distress. “I couldn’t, 
I couldn’t doubt anybody. There isn’t any reason. 
You know, it doesn’t seem real.” 

“And there it is,” Warnham growled. 

“Yes. Well, I shouldn’t talk about it, you know. 
When he’s up again take him right away, somewhere 
quiet. You’ll live with him yourself, of course. 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 233 

That’s all safe. And I—well, I shan’t forget the 
case. Good-bye.” 

“Oh, Mr. Fortune-” she started up and caught 

his hands. 

“Yes, yes, good-bye,” said Reggie, and got away. 
But as Warnham let them out he felt Warnham’s 
lean hand grip into his arm. 

“A little homely comfort would be grateful,” 
Reggie murmured. “Come and have tea at the 
Academies, Eden. They keep a pleasing muffin.” 
He sank down in his car at Eden’s side with a happy 
sigh. 

But Eden’s brow was troubled. “Do you think 
the child will be safe now, Fortune?” he said. 

“Oh, I think so. If it was Warnham or Mrs. 
Warnham who poisoned him-” 

“Good Lord! You don’t think that?” 

“They are frightened,” said Reggie placidly. “I 
frightened ’em quite a lot. And if it was somebody 
else—the child is going away and Mrs. Warnham 
will be eating and drinking everything he eats and 
drinks. The small Gerald will be all right. There 
remains only the little problem, who was it?” 

“It’s a diabolical affair. Who could want to kill 
that child?” 

“Diabolical is the word,” Reggie agreed. “And 
a little simple food is what we need,” and they went 
into the club and through a long tea he talked to 
Eden of rock gardens and Chinese nursery rhymes. 


234 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

But when Eden, somewhat dazed by his appetite 
and the variety of his conversation, was gone, he 
made for that corner of the club where Lomas sat 
drinking tea made in the Russian manner. He 
pointed a finger at the clear weak fluid. “ Tt was 
sad and bad and mad’ and it was not even sweet,” 
he complained. ‘‘Take care, Lomas. Think what’s 
happened to Russia. You would never be happy as 
a Bolshevik.” 

“I understand that the detective police force is 
the one institution which has survived in Russia.” 

“Put down that repulsive concoction and come 
and take the air.” 

Lomas stared at him in horror. “Where’s your 
young lady? I thought you were walking out. 
You’re a faithless fellow, Fortune. Go and walk 
like a little gentleman.” But there was that in 
Reggie’s eye which made him get up with a groan. 
“You’re the most ruthless man I know.” 

The car moved away from the club and Reggie 
shrank under his rug as the January east wind met 
them. “I hope you are cold,” said Lomas. “What 
is it now?” 

“It was nearly another anonymous murder,” and 
Reggie told him the story. 

“Diabolical,” said Lomas. 

“Yes, I believe in the devil,” Reggie nodded. 

“Who stood to gain by the child’s death? It’s 
clear enough. There’s only Warnham. Mrs. Warn- 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 235 

ham was left a rich woman when her first husband 
died, old Staveleigh. Every one knew that was why 
Warnham was after her. But the bulk of the for¬ 
tune went to the child. So he took the necessary 
action. Good Gad! We all knew Crab Warnham 
didn’t stick at a trifle. But this-! Cold¬ 

blooded scoundrel. Can you make a case of it?” 

“I like you, Lomas. You’re so natural,” Reggie 
said. 4 ‘That’s all quite clear. And it’s all wrong. 
This case isn’t natural, you see. It hath a devil.” 

“Do you mean to say it wasn’t Warnham?” 

“It wasn’t Warnham. I tried to frighten him. 
He was frightened. But not for himself. Because 
the child has an enemy and he doesn’t know who 
it is.” 

“Oh, my dear fellow. He’s not & murderer 

because you like his face.” 

“Who could like his face? No. The poison was 
given at the party where Warnham wasn’t.” 

“But why? What possible motive? Some 
homicidal lunatic goes to a Kensington children’s 
party and picks out this one child to poison. Not 
very credible, is it?” 

“No, it’s diabolical. I didn’t say a lunatic. When 
you tell me what lunacy is, we’ll discuss whether 
the poisoner was sane. But the diabolical is getting 
a little too common, Lomas. There was Bigod: 
young, healthy, well off, just engaged to a jolly girl. 
He falls into a chalkpit and the jury says it was 



236 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

misadventure. There was the lady doctor: young, 
clean living, not a ghost of a past, everybody liking 
her. She is murdered and a girl who was very 
fond of her nearly goes mad over it. Now there’s 
the small Gerald: a dear kid, his mother worships 
him, his step-father’s mighty keen on him, every¬ 
body likes him. Somebody tries to poison him and 
nearly brings it off.” 

“What are you arguing, Fortune? It’s odd the 
cases should follow one another. It’s deuced awk¬ 
ward we can’t clean them up. But what then? 
They’re not really related. The people are uncon¬ 
nected. There’s a different method of murder— 
if the Bigod case was murder. The only common 
feature is that the man who attempted murder is 
not known.” 

“You think so? Well, well. What I want to 
know is, was there any one at Mrs. Lawley’s party in 
Kensington who was also at the Home of Help party 
and also staying somewhere near the chalkpit when 
Bigod fell into it. Put your men on to that.” 

“Good Gad! said Lomas. “But the cases are 
not comparable—not in the same class. Different 
method—different kind of victim. What motive 
could any creature have for picking out just these 
three to kill?” 

Reggie looked at him. “Not nice murders, are 
they?” he said. “I could guess—and I dare say 
we’ll only guess in the end.” 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 237 

That night he was taking Miss Amber, poor girl, 
to a state dinner of his relations. They had ten 
minutes together before the horrors of the ceremony 
began and she was benign to him about the recovery 
of the small Gerald. “It was dear of you to ring up 
and tell me. I love Gerald. Poor Mrs. Warnham! 
I just had to go round to her and she was sweet. But 
she has been frightened. You’re rather a wonderful 
person, sir. I didn’t know you were a children’s 
doctor—as well as a million other things. What 
was the matter? Mrs. Warnham didn’t tell us. 
It must-” 

“Who are 'us,’ Joan?” 

“Why, Lady Chantry was with her. She didn’t 
tell us what it really was. After we came away 
Lady Chantry asked me if I knew.” 

“But I’m afraid you don’t,” Reggie said. “Joan, 
I don’t want you to talk about the small Gerry. 
Do you mind?” 

“My dear, of course not.” Her eyes grew bigger. 
“But, Reggie—the boy’s going to be all right?” 

“Yes. Yes. You’re rather a dear, you know.” 

And at the dinner-table which then received them 
his family found him of an unwonted solemnity. It 
was agreed, with surprise and reluctance, that his 
engagement had improved him: that there might be 
some merit in Miss Amber after all. 

A week went by. He had been separated from 
Miss Amber for one long afternoon to give evidence 



238 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

in the case of the illegitimate Pekinese when she rang 
him up on the telephone. Lady Chantry, she said, 
had asked her to choose a day and bring Mr. Fortune 
to dine. Lady Chantry did so want to know him. 

“Does she, though?” said Mr. Fortune. 

“She was so nice about it,” said the telephone. 
“And she really is a good sort, Reggie. She’s always 
doing something kind.” 

“Joan,” said Mr. Fortune, “you’re not to go into 
her house.” 

“Reggie!” said the telephone. 

“That’s that,” said Mr. Fortune. “I’ll speak to 
Lady Chantry.” 

Lady Chantry was at home. She sat in her austere 
pleasant drawing-room, toasting a foot at the fire, a 
small foot which brought out a pretty leg. Of course 
she was in black with some white about her neck, but 
the loose gown had grace. She smiled at him and 
tossed back her hair. Not a thread of white showed 
in its crisp brown and it occurred to Reggie that he 
had never seen a woman of her age carry off bobbed 
hair so well. What was her age? Her eyes were 
as bright as a bird’s and her clear pallor was 
un furrowed. 

“So good of you, Mr. Fortune-” 

“Miss Amber has just told me-” 

They spoke together. She got the lead then. 
“It was kind of her to let you know at once. But 
she’s always kind, isn’t she? I did so want you to 



THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 239 

come, and make friends with me before you’re 
married, and it will be very soon now, won’t it? 
Oh, but do let me give you some tea.” 

“No tea, thank you.” 

“Won’t you? Well, please ring the bell. I 
don’t know how men can exist without tea. But 
most of them don’t now, do they? You’re almost 
unique, you know. I suppose it’s the penalty of 
greatness.” 

“I came round to say that Miss Amber won’t be 
able to dine with you, Lady Chantry.” 

It was a moment before she answered. “But 
that is too bad. She told me she was sure you could 
find a day.” 

“She can’t come,” said Reggie sharply. 

“The man has spoken,” she laughed. “Oh, of 
course, she mustn’t go behind that.” He was given 
a keen mocking glance. “And can’t you come, 
either, Mr. Fortune?” 

“I have a great deal of work, Lady Chantry. It’s 
come rather unexpectedly.” 

“Indeed, you do look worried. I’m so sorry. 
I’m sure you ought to take a rest, a long rest.” 
A servant came in. “Won’t you really have some 
tea?” 

“No, thank you. Good-bye, Lady Chantry.” 

He went home and rang up Lomas. Lomas, like 
the father of Baby Bunting, had gone a-hunting. 
Lomas was in Leicestershire. Superintendent Bell 


240 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


replied: Did Bell know if they had anything new 
about the unknown murderer? 

“Inquiries are proceeding, sir,” said Superintend¬ 
ent Bell. 

“Damn it, Bell, I’m not the House of Commons. 
Have you got anything?” 

“Not what you’d call definite, sir, no.” 

“You’ll say that on the Day of Judgment,” said 
Reggie. 

It was on the next day that he found a telegram 
waiting for him when he came home to dress for 
dinner: 

Gerald ill again very anxious beg you will come 
sending car to meet evening trains. 

Warnham 

Fernhurst 

Blackover. 

He scrambled into the last carriage of the half¬ 
past six as it drew out of Waterloo. 

Mrs. Warnham had faithfully obeyed his orders 
to take Gerald to a quiet place. Blackover stands an 
equally uncomfortable distance from two main lines, 
one of which throws out toward it a feeble and 
spasmodic branch. After two changes Reggie ar¬ 
rived, cold and with a railway sandwich rattling in 
his emptiness, on the dimly-lit platform of Black- 
over. The porter of all work who took his ticket 
thought there was a car outside. 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 241 

In the dark station yard Reggie found only one: 
“Do you come from Fernhurst?” he called, and the 
small chauffeur who was half inside the bonnet shut 
it up and touched his cap and ran round to his seat. 

They dashed off into the night, climbing up by 
narrow winding roads through woodland. Nothing 
passed them, no house gave a gleam of light. The 
car stopped on the crest of a hill and Reggie looked 
out. He could see nothing but white frost and pines. 
The chauffeur was getting down. 

“What’s the trouble?” said Reggie, with his head 
out of window: and slipped the catch and came out 
in a bundle. 

The chauffeur’s face was the face of Lady 
Chantry. He saw it in the flash of a pistol overhead 
as he closed with her. “I will, I will,” she muttered, 
and fought him fiercely. Another shot went into the 
pines. He wrenched her hand round. The third 
was fired into her face. The struggling body fell 
away from him, limp. 

He carried it into the rays of the headlights and 
looked close. “That’s that,” he said with a shrug, 
and put it into the car. 

He lit a cigar and listened. There was no sound 
anywhere but the sough of the wind in the pines. 
He climbed into the chauffeur’s place and drove 
away. At the next cross-roads he took that which 
led north and west, and so in a while came out on 
the Portsmouth road. 


242 


MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 


That night the frost gathered on a motor-car in 
a lane between Hindhead and Shottermill. Mr. 
Fortune unobtrusively caught the last train from 
Halsemere. 

When he came out from a matinee with Joan 
Amber next day, the newsboys were shouting 
“Motor Car Mystery.” Mr. Fortune did not buy a 
paper. 

It was on the morning of the second day that 
Scotland Yard sent for him. Lomas was with 
Superintendent Bell. The two of them received him 
with solemnity and curious eyes. Mr. Fortune was 
not pleased. “Dear me, Lomas, can’t you keep the 
peace for a week at a time?” he protested. “What 
is the reason for your existence?” 

“I had all that for breakfast,” said Lomas. 
“Don’t talk like the newspapers. Be original.” 

“ Another Mysterious Murder,’ ” Reggie mur¬ 
mured, quoting headlines. “ ‘Scotland Yard Baffled 
Again,’ ‘Police Mandarins.’ No, you haven’t a 
‘good Press,’ Lomas old thing.” 

Lomas said something about the Press. “Do you 
know who that woman chauffeur was, Fortune?” 

“That wasn’t in the papers, was it?” 

“You haven’t guessed?” 

Again Reggie Fortune was aware of the grave 
curiosity in their eyes. “Another of our mysterious 
murders,” he said dreamily. “I wonder. Are you 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 243 

working out the series at last? I told you to look 
for some one who was always present/’ 

Lomas looked at Superintendent Ball. “Lady 
Chantry was present at this one, Fortune,” he said. 
“Lady Chantry took out her car the day before 
yesterday. Yesterday morning the car was found 
in a lane above Halsemere. Lady Chantry was 
inside. She wore chauffeur’s uniform. She was 
shot through the head.” 

“Well, well,” said Reggie Fortune. 

“I want you to come down and look at the 
body.” 

“Is the body the only evidence?” 

“We know where she bought the coat and cap. 
Her own coat and hat were under the front seat. 
She told her servants she might not be back at 
night. No one knows what she went out for or 
where she went.” 

“Yes. Yes. When a person is shot, it’s generally 
with a gun. Have you found it?” 

“She had an automatic pistol in her hand.” 

Reggie Fortune rose. “I had better see her,” he 
said sadly. “A wearing world, Lomas. Come on. 
My car’s outside.” 

Two hours later he stood looking down at the 
slight body and the scorched wound in that pale face 
while a police surgeon demonstrated to him how the 
shot was fired. The pistol was gripped with the 


244 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

rigour of death in the woman’s right hand, the bullet 
that was taken from the base of the skull fitted it, 
the muzzle—remark the stained, scorched flesh— 
must have been held close to her face when the shot 
was fired. And Reggie listened and nodded. ‘‘Yes, 
yes. All very clear, isn’t it? A straight case.” 
He drew the sheet over the body and paid compli¬ 
ments to the doctor as they went out. 

Lomas was in a hurry to meet them. Reggie 
shook his head. “There’s nothing for me, Lomas. 
And nothing for you. The medical evidence is sui¬ 
cide. Scotland Yard is acquitted without a stain 
on its character.” 

“No sort of doubt?” said Lomas. 

“You can bring all the College of Surgeons to see 
her. You’ll get nothing else.” 

And so they climbed into the car again. “Finis, 
thank God!” said Mr. Fortune as the little town 
ran by. 

Lomas looked at him curiously. “Why did she 
commit suicide, Fortune?” he said. 

“There are also other little questions,” Reggie 
murmured. “Why did she murder Bigod? Why 
did she murder the lady doctor? Why did she try 
to murder the child?” 

Lomas continued to stare at him. “How do you 
know she did?” he said in a low voice. “You’re 
making very sure.” 

“Great heavens! You might do some of the work. 


THE UNKNOWN MURDERER 245 

I know Scotland Yard isn’t brilliant, but it might 
take pains. Who was present at all the murders? 
Who was the constant force? Haven’t you found 
that out yet?” 

“She was staying near Bigod’s place. She was 
at the orphanage. She was at the child’s party. 
And only she was at all three. It staggered me 
when I got the evidence complete. But what in 
heaven makes you think she is the murderer?” 

Reggie moved uneasily. “There was something 
malign about her.” 

“Malign! But she was always doing philan¬ 
thropic work.” 

“Yes. It may be a saint who does that—or the 
other thing. Haven’t you ever noticed—some of 
the people who are always busy about distress they 
rather like watching distress?” 

“Why, yes. But murder! And what possible 
motive is there for killing these different people? 
She might have hated one or another. But not all 
three.” 

“Oh, there is a common factor. Don’t you see? 
Each one had somebody to feel the death like torture 
—the girl Bigod was engaged to, the girl who was 
devoted to the lady doctor, the small Gerald’s mother. 
There was always somebody to suffer horribly—and 
the person to be killed was always somebody who 
had a young good life to lose. Not at all nice mur¬ 
ders, Lomas. Genus diabolical, species feminine. 


246 MR. FORTUNE’S PRACTICE 

Say that Lady Chantry had a devilish passion for 
cruelty—and it ended that night in the motor-car.” 

“But why commit suicide? Do you mean she 
was mad?” 

“I wouldn’t say that. That’s for the Day of 
Judgment. When is cruelty madness? I don’t 
know. Why did she—give herself away—in the 
end? Perhaps she found she had gone a little too 
far. Perhaps she knew you and I had begun to 
look after her. She never liked me much, I fancy: 
She was a little—odd—with me.” 

“You’re an uncanny fellow, Fortune.” 

“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! I’m 
wholly normal. I’m the natural man,” said Reggie 
Fortune. 












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